


Secrets and Families

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [14]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Deep Magic, Family Secrets, Gen, Old Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-30 20:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11470911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: Greg once said that secrets and families aren’t such a good thing.  Trouble is, he’s been keeping a secret that’s about to come crashing down on everyone.  It’s going to take the whole family and a secret lost for centuries to get Parker out of this one intact.





	1. Fateful Collapse

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the fourteenth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows “It's Gonna Be Okay”.
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_. This story also includes concepts, ideas, and minor characters from _The Real Ghostbusters_. Bonus points for anyone who spots the cameo from a mid-nineties to early two-thousands TV show named _Diagnosis Murder_.

The day dawned bright, cheerful, with that perfect combination of temperature and humidity. The clouds, what few there were, had a white, puffy look to them, with nary a drop of gray to be seen. The Strategic Response Unit was the same as it ever was; though Jules and Lou had managed to get themselves assigned to window washing duty after separate pranks the pair had pulled left said windows covered in muck.

Inside, Spike was inspecting – and pampering – his robot, Babycakes, newly upgraded with an assortment of runes, wards, and other improvements to keep the bomb-detection ‘bot in good working order no matter where it was deployed. Wordy, Sam and Ed were in the workout room, trading banter back and forth as they spotted each other with the free weights and whiled away the time. Ed had cajoled their boss into promising to join them as soon as he was finished with the ever constant paperwork, but he had yet to appear; Ed plotted out how best to tease his boss and friend over the delay as he left the free weights in favor of a treadmill.

As the day continued on, the rest of Team One joined their fellows in the workout room, Spike straggling in last. He received a good share of guff; his dislike – to put it mildly – of workouts was well known to his teammates. Ed, though, peered out the door, growing concern on his face.

“Boss still working on paperwork?” he asked Spike casually.

Spike, in the middle of hopping up on another treadmill, shrugged. “Must be, Ed. I haven’t seen him all morning.”

Ed sighed, shaking his head and tapping the controls on his treadmill to bring it to a halt. “I’ll get him; he’s been skipping too many workouts lately.” No way Greg was getting landed with that much paperwork; sure the stuff multiplied like rabbits, but Greg had been working on it for hours. Plus, it was Ed’s job as team leader to keep all of his teammates on top of their physical fitness – and that included his negotiator, usually-in-the-truck boss.

So Ed sidled off the treadmill, with a grin for Wordy’s tease as he left. As he strolled out into the main area, Winnie Camden, their newest dispatcher, waved to get his attention. He detoured to her at once. She was a petite woman, a bit shorter than Spike, with light cocoa skin and brown hair. It was naturally curly, but Winnie alternated between her natural curl and straightened hair. Her brown eyes held a touch of worry and concern; Ed dispensed with any banter as he leaned against her desk and arched a brow in expectation.

For a moment, Winnie’s jaw clenched, then she reported, “There was some paperwork this morning that Commander Holleran put a rush on; Sarge still hasn’t gotten it to me.”

Ed’s brows shot up. “He’s been working on paperwork all morning, Winnie.”

“I know,” Winnie agreed, “But he hasn’t gotten any of it to me and Commander Holleran’s getting impatient.”

Ed glanced over at the briefing room, somewhat surprised that he didn’t immediately see his friend and boss inside, pen in hand as he worked at the table. “He in there?”

“Yeah,” Winnie confirmed.

“Okay, I’ll roust the Boss out, get that paperwork to you, Winnie,” Ed promised, pushing off from the counter.

“Thanks, Ed,” Winnie thanked him.

Ed nodded to her, then headed over to the briefing room and around the table, calling, “Hey, Greg, Winnie’s waiting on that paperwork from…”

Greg Parker lay behind the table, a storm of white paper scattered around him. He wasn’t moving; it took Ed far, far too long to see his chest move in a single, shallow breath. Even in the dimly lit room, he was deathly pale, almost shrunken for some reason.

Ed froze, staring in utter horror; he bellowed, “Winnie, call the paramedics!” and threw himself at his boss. He landed hard on his hands and knees, but didn’t care as he scrambled to check his Sergeant’s pulse. _Don’t you_ dare _die on me, Greg!_

His bellow attracted attention from the rest of Team One, who barreled en mass from the workout room to the briefing room at Ed’s roar. Still on his knees at Greg’s side, Ed looked up at them as they stampeded in. “Move the table,” he snapped, “Get everything you can out of here.”

For a minute, that occupied them, but then the table and chairs were out of the way, shoved into the hall or to the sides of the room. “Is he?” Lou managed, pale and stricken; behind him, the rest of the team hovered anxiously for their team leader’s response, torn between terror and guilt for not checking on their boss earlier.

Ed’s face was grim; his fingers rested on Greg’s pulse, there but rapid and fluttering. “He’s alive,” the man confirmed, as the unconscious Sergeant drew in another shallow breath. “I don’t like his pulse or breathing, though,” Ed finished, looking very unhappy.

The paramedics arrived then, pushing through the hovering Team One and setting their gear down next to Ed and Greg. “What happened?” the first one, a blonde, middle-aged woman asked.

“I don’t know,” Ed admitted, “I came to get him; he’s been spending too much time on paperwork lately; and I found him like this.”

Winnie had, by this time, fought her way through Team One; she volunteered, “I last saw Sergeant Parker working about an hour and a half ago, he asked me to bring him some coffee, extra hot.”

She was immediately the focus of several laser-like looks; Jules voicing their mutual concern, “Sarge doesn’t like his coffee that hot; he says it burns his mouth.”

Winnie frowned, thinking back. “I’m not sure, but, um, he might have been shivering.”

Ed’s gut clenched, shivering indoors while in an SRU uniform? Usually, the problem they had was the exact opposite. If the Boss had been getting sick, why hadn’t he said anything or stayed home? His eyes dropped to his boss, still unresponsive, the pulse under his fingertips growing weaker by the minute, and he flinched. If Greg _had_ stayed home, how long would it have taken to find him? And would he have…Ed cut his train of thought, refusing to even _think_ of his friend dying – at _all_ , much less…alone… The team leader swore at himself; Greg was _not_ going to die, not on _his_ watch!

The paramedics assessed their patient as well as they could, then strapped the SRU Sergeant to a backboard and hefted him onto the stretcher Sam and Spike retrieved for them. “We’re taking him to Metro General,” the younger, brown-haired paramedic informed them. Then they were gone and Ed was listening to the wail of an ambulance siren outside.

The utterly numb team looked up as Commander Holleran stepped in, attracted by the commotion and fully informed by a tearful Winnie. The tall, gray and white peppered man surveyed his top team, not bothering to hide his frown. “Go, all of you; just keep me informed.”

Not a single one of them bothered to change back into civilian clothes before they hit their cars.

* * * * *

The doctor that finally arrived and spoke to them – spoke to Ed actually – started off with a deep frown and a rather pointed, “Has Sergeant Parker, at any time recently, taken or been exposed to drugs or does he have a drinking problem?” He was an older, distinguished gentleman, with a full head of white hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and an pair of wire-frame glasses. He looked rather friendly but, at the moment, was all business as he regarded Ed and held a pen at the ready over his clipboard.

Ed took the lead, a quick hand gesture keeping the rest of the team silent. “He had an alcohol problem years ago, but he hasn’t touched a drop in over a decade. No drugs,” he said firmly, no give in his voice at all.

A few scrawled notes then, “Any unusual behavior in the past few days?”

The group traded looks, then Ed replied in the negative.

“Any work related injuries that were considered too minor to report?”

“No, doc, it’s been pretty quiet the past two days.” Ed considered, thinking hard about the past week, but nothing jumped out at him; again, the team traded looks and shrugs, then Ed remarked, “We did just work the Eco-Terror bombing case, but other than Lou, none of us took any hard knocks.”

The doctor sighed heavily as he wrote a few final notes. “We’ll continue to investigate, gentlemen, but for now, your Sergeant’s in a coma with no immediately identifiable cause.” Ed swallowed hard, but the doctor wasn’t done. “No stroke, no tumor, nothing in his medical records about diabetes, no infection; in short, we have no idea why he collapsed or why he’s now in a coma.”

“How bad?” Ed got out, the shock of it hitting him like a baseball bat – or a sledgehammer.

A glance was cast around at the rest of the team; Ed’s expression hardened. “They’re going to hear it anyway, doc, so just spit it out.”

With a deep sigh, the doctor admitted, “He came in with a five on the Glasgow Coma Scale; hasn’t slipped any farther than that, but that’s quite the severe decline for a man who was walking and talking not four, five hours ago.” The doctor removed his glasses, considering them all quite seriously. “If he has any family, I would notify them as soon as possible. It’s entirely possible that if Sergeant Parker continues to decline as he has, he may not survive the night.”

Dead silence draped the group; in spite of their extreme worry, the idea that their Sergeant might not survive had never crossed their minds. It was one thing if they got hurt on the job, but for their boss to die from a sudden, inexplicable coma was quite another; it felt unjust and extraordinarily unfair.

“Don’t count Sarge out,” Wordy spoke up after a minute, a glint in his eye and an obstinate set to his jaw. “He’s stubborn enough to put up with us; he’s stubborn enough to pull through.”

This earned them the first smile they’d seen from the doctor. “I hope so, gentlemen,” the man admitted. “He certainly has a fine group of friends pulling for him.”

With that, the doctor departed to return to his patient. Behind him, Team One traded grim looks and discussed their plans. In short order, it was settled that Jules, Sam, and Lou would return to headquarters to update Commander Holleran and retrieve the team’s civilian clothing. Ed and Wordy would call their families to let them know what had happened and what the current prognosis was; then Wordy would pick their boss’s kids up from school while Ed headed for the Auror Division to inform Madame Locksley and see if she could get a Healer out to Metro General. Spike would stay at Metro General to keep an eye on Greg, notifying his parents by telephone of the day’s events. Plans set, the team scattered.

* * * * *

To the frustration of all, the Healers were similarly mystified by the coma; they’d been snuck in well after visiting hours, in between Metro General’s overworked shifts of workers. The two Healers, experienced men both, cast every diagnostic spell in the book and a few that weren’t in the book, determined to discover the coma’s cause. Yet not a single one of the diagnostics told the worried group anything they hadn’t already known. Yes, their Sergeant was in a coma; yes, his consciousness was depressed to the point of barely reacting to stimuli; but, no, there was no readily identifiable cause.

It was Wordy who thanked the Healers for their time and efforts, Ed was too upset and frustrated to do so. After some whispered – mostly whispered – arguing, a rotation of watchers was settled on. Wordy took the kids home with him; no way the team would let them stay on their own in Greg’s apartment. Ed, with his own brand of obstinate stubbornness, won the right of first watch and the rest of the team headed home, with loud insistence on being notified if anything changed.

By morning, something had changed. Greg Parker was on life-support.


	2. Dying by Inches

A day, two days slipped by. Team One was taken off rotation until the situation was resolved…for good or ill. Sadly, it was becoming more and more likely that the ‘resolution’ would be a funeral. Parker showed no signs of improving; quite the reverse actually. By day two, he’d slipped from a rocky five on the Glasgow Scale to a rock-bottom three. The monitors on him had to be silenced, his readings were so low; the good doctor soon declared that the fallen Sergeant was brain-dead, but his body, supported by the machines, still breathed, if only just.

As if the readings weren’t discouraging enough, Parker’s stocky, but robust form was still and shrunken on the bed, his skin turning paler and paler; there was not even a trace of life in the expression on his face. By the end of the second day, his remnants of brown hair had more color than the rest of him and nothing anyone tried earned so much as a flicker of response.

In short, the situation looked, and felt, utterly hopeless; to top things off, they _still_ had no idea _why_ their Sergeant was in a coma. So it was that on the morning of the third day since Parker’s collapse, Lance and Alanna Calvin prevailed upon Constable Wordsworth to ‘accompany’ them on an urgent errand that could not be delayed. Though they declared the errand urgent, they also insisted upon their temporary guardian stopping at their apartment on the way.

* * * * *

Wordy resisted the urge to grumble under his breath as the teenagers hauled him inside Sarge’s apartment. He was wearing his uniform; they’d all learned pretty quickly that the nurses and doctors responded much more swiftly if they were in uniform versus their civilian clothes. As such, he really didn’t see the point of the kids dragging him into the apartment just so the kids could change clothes. They could do that on their own.

Then Alanna hauled out a set of robes that looked fancy enough for a ball or a soiree or something…that were in his size. “No way,” he baulked, warding off the robes with both hands. “Uh, uh, not a chance.”

Lance crossed his arms, setting his jaw in a way that made Wordy’s heart ache. It was Greg Parker’s you-are-going-to-do-this expression on his much younger, full-haired _nipote_. Though the words weren’t Sarge’s; Sarge wasn’t quite as blunt. “Don’t be a baby, Wordy,” the teen chided, “We need to make a good impression.”

Alanna nodded her agreement with her brother’s statement. “We’re not giving up, not without one heck of a fight, anyway.”

Wordy looked between them, now thoroughly confused. “Um, explanation, please? How the heck does wearing _that_ ,” he pointed at the robes, “Make a good impression and who are we impressing?”

The pair traded looks and nods; then Alanna started off with, “We got to thinking yesterday.”

“And it occurred to us that we hadn’t explored all our options in the magical world,” Lance put in.

“You mean, what, another hospital?” Wordy questioned, glancing between the teens and the robes Alanna was still holding.

To his surprise, both shook their heads. “Wizards are hardly the only magical race,” Alanna informed the brunet.

“True, most of the other races pretty much keep to themselves,” Lance admitted, but he kept going with, “But some races interact with wizards on a daily basis. We started wondering if maybe one of the other races might be able to figure out what’s going on. That’s the biggest problem, right?”

Wordy considered, turning the idea over in his head and poking it for holes. “Wouldn’t any other races be more, I don’t know, focused on healing their own people?”

They nodded, but Lance explained, “Specifically, we’re thinking of the goblins. They have a very long history of researching magic, breaking curses, and they have their own brand of magic; just like any other non-human magical race. It’s totally separate from wizarding magic and each type of magic has its own strengths and weaknesses.”

“Okay…” Wordy said thoughtfully, “So they might catch stuff that the wizard Healers didn’t? Or know more about what might cause something like this?” He sighed, regarding the robes with distaste. “I’m not going to win this, am I?”

To the kids’ credit, they did look mildly regretful. “No,” Alanna told him, “You really aren’t.”

Oh well…at least the robes were a rather fetching navy blue.

* * * * *

Lance led the way into Gringotts, his dress robes gleaming in the lighting of the marble lobby. His robes were cut in the style of the Old Narnian Kings, an elegant style that began with a light gray undershirt; the undershirt peeked from under the sleeve slits of the tunic he wore above it. The tunic itself was deep red and made of velvet with silver embroidery on it. The embroidery on the tunic’s collar, while fancy, was minimalistic and stitched to look like ivy vines. A silver, twisted, two cord belt ran around the young man’s waist, tied in the back, under the two-tone cape he wore. The cape was the same red as the tunic on the back and the same silver as the embroidery on the underside, adding a quiet emphasis to both colors; the cape fell almost to the floor, but cut off an inch before it could actually brush the ground. His tunic fell to mid-thigh, setting off his silvery hosen and black leather boots; the boots nearly came up to Lance’s knee.

Behind him and to his right, Alanna strode in her own dress robes. Hers were the ladies’ version of the Old Narnian Kings’ formal attire, making it clear she was her brother’s equal, both in peace and in war. Where her brother’s clothing was red, hers was a lighter hue of blue; where his was silver, hers was cream.

Wordy, on Lance’s left, felt awkward in his navy blue dress robes and he was more than a bit jealous of the kids’ clothing, hosen notwithstanding. It would have been a lot easier to wear than robes, even if the blasted robes were cut for freedom of movement and a bit large to let him wear his uniform underneath.

Lance settled into line, head high, his posture screaming that he was of the old blood and used to being in charge. Alanna managed to affect a minor disdain for any wizard who sneered in Wordy’s direction; his unfamiliarity with robes marked him as, at best, a Muggleborn in their eyes. It was perhaps fortunate that none of the sneering wizards realized he was Muggle; there would have been nigh mutiny from them. The goblin tellers were equally unimpressed with the haughty wizards; such behavior wasted time and therefore gold. Still, despite the sneering purebloods, the line moved relatively quickly, allowing the trio to reach the tellers in short order.

Lance, still in the lead, strode up to the open teller and, with a brief glance down at the nameplate, said, “Good morning, Teller Knifegrip; I am Lancelot Calvin, Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Calvin, and I would like to speak with my account manager.”

The goblin eyed all three of them, his eyes resting the longest on Wordy. Then he bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Wait here, please,” he requested, flipping the sign on his desk to ‘Closed’. He hopped down from his chair and vanished through a door behind the counter. When he returned, he moved around the desk, saying, “Follow, please.”

The group followed him through the warren of corridors until they reached a plain office door. The teller knocked upon the door, receiving an impatient, “Enter,” from the other side of the door. The trio was led inside, the teller giving the goblin inside a bow before departing.

“Account Manager Silnok,” Lance greeted the goblin behind the desk, “This is one of our cousin’s subordinates, Auror Constable Wordsworth.”

Silnok inclined his head in greeting to Wordy, who wasn’t quite sure if he should offer a handshake or not. He opted to offer one; Silnok’s face twisted in an unfamiliar way, but the goblin did accept the handshake. “Where is your honored cousin, Heir Calvin?” Silnok inquired.

The bombshell was dropped with no subtly or tact. “In the hospital on life-support, Account Manager Silnok,” Lance reported flatly. Silnok reared back, shocked and horrified. “Three days ago, he collapsed and was discovered on the floor, already in a coma,” Lance continued, the details shocking Wordy, who’d left them out of his own explanation to the kids; silently, the constable vowed to find out who’d been insensitive enough to give two _kids_ the nitty-gritty details on their uncle’s collapse…he and they would have _words_.

“Neither the techie Healers nor the magical Healers have been able to diagnosis what caused the coma and our cousin is rapidly slipping away,” Lance explained quietly, adding, “My sister and I have already been urged to turn off life-support.”

“They what?” Wordy demanded loudly without thinking, then hurriedly backed down with a much softer, “Sorry.”

“No apology necessary, Constable Wordsworth,” Silnok rumbled. “I was about to make the same exclamation myself.” The goblin’s gaze hardened as he regarded a nervous, but determined Lance. “You wish the Healers of the Goblin Nation to examine your cousin, Heir Calvin?”

“I do,” Lance confirmed, inclining his head. “I am well aware this is outside your normal dealings…” he trailed off as Silnok waved a long-fingered hand.

“You forget, Heir Calvin, your family’s status as Goblin-friend. Were it simply your request, this would have been more complicated, of course, but your cousin _is_ accepted as a Calvin by Gringotts. As such, it is the Goblin Nation’s honor to assist in any way possible.” Silnok leaned back in his chair, expression turning thoughtful; ideas and plans already swirling behind his dark eyes. “Where is Sergeant Parker being treated?”

“Metro General,” Wordy chipped in.

Silnok shot Wordy an appreciative look for his prompt response. “Indeed. I shall speak with our Healers and arrange for them to be sent as soon as may be. In the meantime, I shall also arrange for the paperwork to transfer Sergeant Parker to a magical facility.” He lifted his hand before Wordy could protest. “This is not a reflection upon your tech hospital, Constable Wordsworth, but rather the acknowledgment that we may be dealing with matters magical, which would require magical treatment in any event.”

Wordy subsided, still unhappy, but he understood Silnok's point.

* * * * *

Wordy surveyed his boss’s form in the bed, still, silent, and oddly shrunken. It was as if everything that made the man who he was had disappeared, an idea that left Wordy shaken. He dropped his voice down to near a whisper and asked the kids, “Anything _you_ guys can do?”

Understanding shown in Lance’s face as he looked up; after all, it wouldn’t be the first time the Calvin family magic had come through in a pinch or in the nick of time. But he had to shake his head in the negative. “We’re not Healers, Uncle Wordy. We did try to get our magic to do something, but…” Now distress twisted the boy’s face. “Our magic practically skittered away from him, that’s why we started thinking about second opinions. Whatever this is, I’d bet my wand it’s magical.”

Wordy shivered. “No offense, kiddos, but sometimes, magic scares me.” Especially if it could do _this_ to his boss without leaving so much as a mark.

Eyes that were far, far too old looked up. “Sometimes,” Alanna replied, “It scares us too.”


	3. Soul Kidnapping

The goblin Healers arrived promptly the next morning at eight o’clock sharp. As Wordy had given his teammates a heads up about the imminent arrivals, neither Lou, who’d stayed the night, nor Spike, the next in the rotation, were alarmed. The nurses and doctors didn’t notice the goblin Healers, period. This was due to both goblin notice-me-not charms and the fact that all three Healers were disguised as human and wearing doctor’s coats. The Healers did not waste time on greeting the Team One constables; instead, they examined Parker from head to toe, conversing in Gobbledegook as they worked.

By the time they were done, Wordy had arrived with the kids so they could see their uncle before he dragged them back to school. Fitting revenge for the robes, in his opinion, with the added benefit that he was sure Sarge would approve of his plan. But even the best plans often go awry and Wordy’s was no exception.

“Heir Calvin,” the foremost goblin Healer greeted, giving Lance a polite half-bow. “We have completed our examination.”

The goblins were immediately the focus of every human occupant of the room, save Parker. “What have you discovered?” Lance asked, eager for answers.

The goblin frowned, a deep and foreboding frown. Rather than explain, he said, “I propose a meeting at Gringotts in an hour’s time, Heir Calvin. No formal attire is required; indeed, I only propose the delay to give us time to assemble our findings in a report and arrange for Sergeant Parker’s transfer to a magical hospital.”

“Then this is a magical problem?” Lance questioned, his alarm buried and his voice steady with an effort.

“Yes, Heir Calvin,” the Healer confirmed.

Lance frowned, folding his arms into a thinking pose. “See Account Manager Silnok for the necessary paperwork,” he instructed, “He promised to begin arrangements yesterday.”

The lead goblin bowed at the instructions. “We shall do so, Heir Calvin and speak with you, your sister, and your blood-kin’s team in an hour.” With that, the Healers vanished, an action that only underscored their urgency.

Alanna made to speak, but stopped at her brother’s upraised hand. Lance swiveled to face all three adults. “I know you all settled on a rotation,” he began.

Spike shook his head, already dialing on his cell phone. “Where do we meet?” he asked, brisk and on task.

“Main Toronto gateway,” Wordy replied, “That’s where we got in yesterday, anyway.”

Lance nodded once. “That’s the closest gateway to Gringotts,” he agreed. “Whatever it is, though, it’s bad. Otherwise they wouldn’t be in such a big hurry. Goblins might be all about making gold and not wasting time, but they usually aren’t in _that_ big of a hurry.” He waved toward where the Healers had been to illustrate his point. “Fast is good,” he added, shadows in his eyes. “I have a feeling we’ve already lost way too much time.”

* * * * *

Thankfully for the stress levels of everyone who’d been at the hospital, the rest of the team arrived in short order at the Toronto gateway. All of them were in their SRU uniforms, save Wordy who hadn’t made it into SRU Headquarters that morning and hadn’t been scheduled to be at the hospital until evening.

Before the group headed through the gateway, Lance gave the new arrivals a quick rundown of the Healer visit and subsequent request for a meeting at Gringotts. “Look, goblins can get prickly, so try not to interrupt them or talk too much. And definitely don’t waste their time, they hate that.”

“Treat it like a negotiation, with you two as the lead negotiators?” Jules asked.

The teens traded considering looks, then nodded. “That’ll work,” Lance agreed. “Let’s go.”

As they had the day before, Lance and Alanna took the lead, giving anyone in their way and those who sneered a haughty, snobbish return glare. The first difference occurred when they reached Gringotts. Instead of standing in line, a goblin was waiting for them in the lobby and hurried over as soon as the group was indoors. “Follow, please,” the goblin requested, already hurrying away. The group had to pick up the pace to keep up with the goblin as they made even more twists and turns than the route of the day prior. At last, they reached a door, made of stone, rather than being a plain office door and the goblin ushered them in without knocking.

Only one goblin Healer awaited them, the lead Healer. “I am Thorncrusher,” the Healer introduced himself. Unlike Silnok, his hair was thin, stringy, and going in all directions, giving Thorncrusher a goblin mad scientist look. He waved the group towards a group of chairs in front of his desk; to the relief of the constables, the chairs were human-sized and made of ordinary wood instead of stone, like the door.

“It is well that you came to us, Heir Calvin,” the goblin continued, not even waiting for his guests to all find their seats. “Another day, perhaps two, and we would not have been able to help in any way.” He waited for them to absorb that somber statement, pulling out several transparent images that looked like medical x-ray film. Instead of producing a film viewer to illuminate the developed x-ray film, the goblin tapped the images and they simply expanded up, letting everyone get a good look.

Lance took one look and grimaced. How the human Healers had missed _that_ , he hadn’t a clue. He was _so_ going to utterly rake them over the coals when this was over. The image was of a magical core; specifically, his _uncle’s_ magical core. But instead of the neat, concentric ‘circles’ that defined a normal core, this one looked like it had…come apart. If one could have a bomb go off in their magical core, this would be the result. “His magical core,” Lance said flatly. “It’s…shattered.”

“Whoa, whoa, time out,” Spike broke in, his hands coming together in the classic ‘time out’ gesture and his face twisting in a mix of surprise and confusion. “Since when does Boss have a magical core? I mean, he’s not a Squib like Samtastic, he’s a techie like the rest of us.”

Both Lance and Alanna gave Spike incredulous looks. “Are you kidding?” Alanna asked, “He’s our cousin, why _wouldn’t_ he have magic, even if he doesn’t have enough to use?”

“Chill, ‘Lanna,” Lance chided, waving his fiery sister back. He cocked his head a moment, thinking. “Magic usually runs in families,” he started slowly, sticking to the basics. “Even if a Squib is born, magic tends to pop back up after a few generations.” He stopped, trying to think of something comparable in the tech world, an example the techies would understand… “Maybe…maybe think of magic as a recessive gene; it might not always show up, but it’s still in the background.”

Jules frowned, trying to follow the logic. “So, magic is really restricted to just a few families? Why are there tech-borns then?”

She got a sly grin in return. “Some of them are direct descendants of magical parents, no two ways about that, Aunt Jules,” Lance acknowledged with a nod. “But remember, the more generations there are between the magical parents and a tech-born wizard, the more people there are with that…potential…for magic.” Sapphire danced in glee at the thought.

Spike started nodding partway through the explanation. “So, the more Squibs there are, the more chance for the ‘magic gene’ to spread.” The bomb tech grinned impishly and threw in, “And let me guess, the magical world only keeps track of full magicals.”

The goblin Healer chuckled. “Quite correct, Constable Scarlatti,” he praised before turning towards Lance. “An astute explanation, Heir Calvin, but not the full story.” Teeth flashed in a goblin grin at the curious looks the humans cast him.

“All human beings, indeed, all _sentient_ beings have magic,” Thorncrusher elaborated, “Life _itself_ is magic, ancient and far more powerful than we tend to accept these days. A Muggle has only the magic of life, Squibs in general possess a small magical core, and wizard magical cores vary in size with the individual. For most, a larger magical core equates to a more powerful wizard.”

Sam blinked, perplexed. “So, me, my sisters, my father, we all have magical cores?”

“Yep,” Lance confirmed, before turning back to the Healer. “Damage to his magical core; that’s the cause of the coma?”

Healer Thorncrusher inclined his head. “It is indeed one of the primary issues, Heir Calvin, but not the only, nor the largest, one I fear.” He sighed, leaning back a little in his chair. “The second problem, on par with the issues in Sergeant Parker’s magical core, is that his mindscape has torn itself apart. The damage is comparable to victims of the Cruciatus Curse.” He ignored the gasps from both Calvins. “At this point, we believe that the majority of this damage occurred several months ago.”

“How does that work?” Ed questioned, eyeing the horrified teens. “If Greg was in that bad of shape, how was he still walking around, never mind working?”

“That, Constable Lane, is an excellent question and sadly at the heart of why things have now gone, as you Muggles might say, so far off the rails.” He reached out, tapping the images still in front of them. “Damage to this extent should, as you pointed out, have shown itself far before now. It is my contention that some of it must have, though it may have been minor and rather unremarkable. It would have been most evident immediately after the initial damage.” His gaze swept all of them. “Beyond a rough estimate of several months ago, we cannot narrow it down any further. So, I ask you, have you noted anything, anything at all, that was out of the ordinary with your Sergeant within the past few months?”

Team One looked at each other, for the most part bewildered by the question. Their Sergeant had been normal, maybe a bit down after calls that had a bad ending, but then, they all took bad calls hard. Ed, however, was not bewildered; instead he was thinking, thinking hard. “Walter Volcek,” he finally declared.

“What about him?” Sam questioned, shifting uncomfortably at the name.

“Boss was the only one to hear him on the radio at first,” Ed pointed out. “It was odd, he was talking to that security guard and then he snapped around and gestured for quiet.”

Sam squirmed a bit, remembering how Volcek had stolen his radio and he’d spoken as loudly as he dared, hoping one of his teammates would realize the radio was compromised; his teammates didn’t seem to notice as they traded looks, silently agreeing that their Sergeant had been the one to catch the radio ‘ringer’.

Lou sucked in a sharp breath as a flash of memory hit him; he blurted, “The grenade! When it went off, I winced at the feedback squeal, but Sarge just about fell over!”

Ed grimaced at that tidbit, but offered up another clue, “When Boss and I got Volcek to talk to us, Boss flinched, really badly, when the guy started talking. Almost like Volcek was yelling in his ear, but he wasn’t even talking that loudly.”

Healer Thorncrusher interrupted at this point. “One of you mentioned a grenade; what sort of grenade was it?”

“Concussion grenade,” Sam filled in, “I, uh, I jumped on it; when it went off, I bet everyone got hit with feedback from it over the comm.”

His teammates nodded agreement. The Healer scowled, his focus turning to Lou. “So, when it went off, Sergeant Parker would have known one of you was in danger?”

“Yeah,” Lou confirmed, “All of us did; we all knew Sam had gone after Volcek and that he’d called for backup.” The man’s face twisted in thought. “Sarge yelled Sam’s name as soon as he recovered from the squeal.”

Sam looked utterly horrified at the idea that _he’d_ been the one to hurt his Sergeant. His eyes shifted back to the image hovering above the Healer’s desk and he swallowed hard.

The Healer, no fool, rebuked him. “Constable Braddock! In no way would anyone, save perhaps a seer, have been able to anticipate such an outcome from your actions that day!” He pointed to the image and added sternly, “This is not your fault, just as the damage that has occurred since that time is not your team’s fault.”

Alanna broke in, her expression more than a little worried. “Healer Thorncrusher, you said that the damage to my uncle’s core and mindscape are issues on par with each other; you also mentioned a larger issue. What is the larger issue?”

Silence fell, every occupant turning to the Healer, worry and fear writ across their faces. The Healer grimaced, sighed, and admitted softly, “The largest issue, Lady Calvin, is the fact that your uncle no longer possesses his soul.”


	4. Anchored by Faith

Silence hung, broken only by the sound of Alanna beginning to cry. Wordy, sitting right next to both kids, pulled the redhead into his arms. Lance went almost frighteningly still, shoving his emotions down by sheer force of will. Team One, though not familiar with the darkest elements of the magical world, had a pretty good idea of the odds their Sergeant faced. If the kids were crushed by the news… They traded grim, solemn looks over the teens’ heads.

Healer Thorncrusher shook his head and said flatly, “Heir Calvin, I did not call this meeting to tell you there is no hope.” Alanna’s head popped up from Wordy’s arms, tears streaking her face as she stared at the goblin. Lance’s eyes narrowed, his expression still rigid, resolute. “The damage is severe, yes, but as I told you, we can help.”

“I’m going to guess this isn’t going to be a simple solution,” Lance remarked, his voice grim and a smidge sarcastic.

“No, it is not,” the Healer agreed. With a heavy sigh, he began to outline the problems. “The initial damage was…suppressed, for lack of a better term, by several ‘anchors’ Sergeant Parker’s magic managed to create with most of you.”

“Wait, what?” Wordy questioned, the startlement on his face mirrored on his teammates. “Sarge was connected to us or something?”

“In short, Constable Wordsworth, yes, he was,” Healer Thorncrusher confirmed. The goblin frowned, thoughtfully, weaving his fingers together. “Such a solution, while inventive, would by necessity be a short-term solution, intended to last only for the duration of the emergency.”

Thorncrusher’s frown grew as he continued, “After all, suppressing the damage does not _heal_ the damage. And, naturally, the longer an injury goes without treatment, the worse it will be.” The Healer stopped, seemingly pondering his own words before explaining, “Unfortunately, for reasons I still do not understand, the anchors remained in place after the emergency. As they persisted, they continued to suppress the damage already present and created a situation where additional damage was not only possible, but inevitable.”

“More damage?” Ed demanded sharply.

“Yes,” the goblin confirmed, looking mildly annoyed at the interruption. “The anchors, created in a moment of desperation and fear for Constable Braddock’s life, were, intentionally or not, created with a dual purpose and therefore flawed.”

At the confused expressions he got from the humans, Thorncrusher elaborated, “The magical core required stabilization; Sergeant Parker wanted to keep all of you safe; so the anchors attempted to do _both_. And _because_ they attempted to do both, the anchors began to serve as conduits instead of simply suppressing the damage.”

The goblin let his explanation sink in, then added, in what might have been an afterthought if his expression hadn’t been so serious, “Emotions, particularly extreme emotions, flooded Sergeant Parker’s magical core and mindscape, causing a great deal of mental stress in addition to the damage.”

Lance held up a tentative hand, waiting until the goblin nodded permission. “Could he feel those emotions or was it just…subconscious?”

“I do not know for sure, Heir Calvin, though I suspect he _could_ feel the invading emotions,” Healer Thorncrusher replied apologetically. The adults traded looks that were part-stunned, part-horrified, and a smidge indignant at the idea that their Sergeant had been able to read their emotions. The Healer, noticing the looks, decided to keep the fact that Parker had also known their locations at all times to himself.

Instead he moved on. “At some point, though I cannot determine the _exact_ moment, the anchors began to give way, much like a rope forced to hoist a weight too great for it. The last gave way two days before Sergeant Parker’s collapse.”

Though none of the humans spoke up, their confusion was evident; shouldn’t their Sergeant have collapsed right after losing the last anchor? “The damage at that point was – and is – extensive enough to leave Parker’s soul…vulnerable to…certain entities,” Thorncrusher rumbled, unhappiness in his face and eyes. Grimly, he capped his explanation off. “A vulnerability that was obviously taken advantage of, hence the collapse.”

With his face set in lines as hard as granite, Lance demanded, “What attacked my uncle, Healer Thorncrusher?”

“And what started the breaking of the anchors?” Alanna inquired, “From what you say, these anchors have lasted for several months.”

“With your permission, Heir Calvin, I shall answer your question in good time,” Healer Thorncrusher rumbled. At Lance’s stiff nod, the Healer addressed Alanna. “Again, I cannot be completely sure, but I suspect the tipping event was Sergeant Parker’s near death vis-á-vis the Killing Curse. Extreme emotions, dark magic, the death of a colleague, all of that likely stretched the anchors to their breaking point. One snapping was inevitable. Once one had snapped, the rest began to follow, much like a trail of dominos.”

“So how do we fix it?” Jules asked, before flinching and stuttering, “I-If we can.”

At her question, Healer Thorncrusher smiled, a wide, vicious smile. “We can, Constable Callaghan; there is still time to repair the damage.”

With a few quick gestures, he moved the hovering images, added another, and adjusted the lot so that the group could see the damage to their Sergeant’s core on the left and another image that they – rightly – assumed to be his mindscape on the right.

“The damage to core and mindscape, while extensive, is repairable. Some effects will remain, even after repairs have been completed. What effects, I cannot say, not until the Sergeant wakes; anything I say now would be a guess and not even an educated one.” The goblin’s expression made it clear that he preferred not to speculate.

“Likewise,” Thorncrusher rumbled, “maintaining Sergeant Parker’s comatose form is straightforward and will be much easier once we have finished fixing as much damage as we can.” Another flick of those long fingers brought the images down, the goblin fixing them with a serious look. “What we, the Goblin Nation, cannot do is retrieve Sergeant Parker’s soul. We do not know how.”

The teens exchanged looks; Lance took the lead. “Do you have any ideas at all?”

A thoughtful pause. “There are few among your kind who remember the Old Magic, Heir Calvin,” the Healer began slowly, choosing each word with care. “By and large, Old Magic is a forgotten relic of the past, set aside in favor of the far easier Latin spells. Where Latin magic falters, Old Magic may well provide the answer you seek.”

Healer Thorncrusher smiled again, vicious triumph gleaming in his dark eyes. “It is most fortunate that your clan is among the few wizarding clans who have not abandoned Old Magic; indeed, your clan is only clan I know of that still keeps tomes of Old Magic in the clan library. Naturally, your clan’s library also has tomes of more…conventional magic, both ‘Light’ and ‘Dark’.”

The teenager cocked his head. “But you believe we should start with Old Magic?”

“Indeed, Heir Calvin,” the goblin confirmed. “As to your earlier question, it was a demon who stole your uncle’s soul.”

Sapphire narrowed. “I suppose we’ll just have to find that demon and teach it why you _never_ mess with _my_ family.”

“Or ours,” Spike piped up.

“You got that right,” Ed growled.

Sam, though, had one last question, “Wait, why would your family library have books about dark magic?”

Lance looked over at the blond sniper. “Why study criminal psychology?” He grinned at the look he got. “Same principle; you’ve got to _understand_ dark magic to stop it. With most of the older books, it also keeps them away from…darker elements; the more powerful a particular piece of magic is, the easier it is to misuse it.”

Wordy arched a brow at that, then looked around at both the kids and his team. With tension running high, he opted to break it. “So…we’re bringing Hawaiian shirts and beach gear, right?” He grinned at the glares he got for the joke.

Then Alanna’s lips twitched. “I can pack that for you,” she teased back, “As long as you don’t mind beaches with snow and ice.”

“Pass,” Wordy decided. “Ed, what about Commander Holleran?”

Ed sighed heavily, not looking altogether pleased with his own conclusions. “He’s not cleared magic-side, so we’re going to have to go under the radar.” He looked around at the team. “Any one have a problem with that?”

Heads shook; the rest of the team looked just as determined as the kids.

“Okay, then,” Ed decided. “Let’s go get the Boss back.”


	5. Back to Calvin Manor

Madame Locksley surveyed the group in front of her, her expression grim. If what they said was true, and she had no reason to doubt them, then saving Parker’s life had just become quite a bit more complicated. If not for the young Calvins, it would have been impossible; with them, she just might be able to finagle what was needed. “Portkeys,” she said crisply. The teens winced, she cast them a _Look_. “I’m sure you two remember the trip here,” was the wry comment, accompanied by a subtle twitch of the witch’s lips.

“Not something I ever wanted to do again,” Lance grumbled.

“He has a point; international Portkeys are often referred to as ‘hell on earth’ by anyone unfortunate enough to use them,” Locksley informed the now nervous adults. “Sadly, it’s really the only way you’re going to get to England quickly and discreetly. And you’ll need three Portkeys; going from here directly to London isn’t possible.”

Alanna grimaced. “Newfoundland and Ireland, right?”

“Very good, Miss Calvin,” Madame Locksley praised her. “I assume that’s the route you came by two years ago?”

“Yeah,” Alanna confirmed. She looked up at the adults and added, “Think rollercoaster, only you’re being yanked along by a hook in your navel and there’s a lot more spinning.” She made a face and added, “And the farther a Portkey goes, the worse the sensation gets; I almost threw up after the second Portkey.”

“Oh,” Jules managed faintly, looking rather green. The rest of Team One looked just as enthusiastic – which was to say, not at all.

Madame Locksley rose from her desk, ushering the whole group out of her office and closing the door. “Quickest done, quickest over,” she decided, leading them along the corridor toward the International Departures area. As she walked, she turned her head and lectured, “Make sure you have your Auror badges, those are your tickets at each Portkey Departure Point as well as into Britain’s magical areas.”

The witch regarded their outfits, adding wryly, “You’ll likely get a few odd looks, what with your uniforms, but just act like you belong and you should get by without too much trouble.” She looked her Aurors over, quietly approving of the duffle bags they all had slung over their shoulders, holding additional clothing, toiletries, and gear. She did make a mental note to suggest they get magical travel bags when they came back; they would be useful for any future trips. Wordsworth was actually toting two bags; she suspected one was for Sergeant Parker, just in case.

“Once you’re over there, Britain’s underage magic rules apply to the children. That means no magic,” she continued her lecture before pausing in confusion.

The dismayed looks she’d half-expected were coming from the _adults_ rather than the children. “But,” Lane started to protest, only to get cut off by Lance clearing his throat.

“Not a problem,” he said calmly. Locksley arched a brow at the boy; he grinned back. “Plausible deniability,” he chirped.

“Noted,” she replied, her voice dry. “Now explain,” Locksley ordered, propping her hands on her hips and giving the teenager an ‘I’m _waiting_ ’ look.

With a shrug, he explained, “They can only track wand magic, ma’am; anything wandless isn’t detected.”

“Wandless?” she hissed, shocked, “You can do wandless magic?” She was even more stunned when both children nodded; it took an iron effort to keep from rearing back in her surprise.

“If, at some point, we do have to use our wands, we’ll accept the consequences,” Alanna put in, somber. “It’ll be worth it to have our uncle back.”

Mind whirling, Madame Locksley led the way into International Departures and arranged the first Portkey. Two quick letters, written on the clerk’s parchment, arranged the second and third Portkeys. Not ten minutes later, the group departed, each of them giving Locksley a salute right before the Portkey activated.

_So it begins,_ she mused, before turning and heading back to her office.

* * * * *

None of the adults kept their feet as they landed and, to the last man, they all suppressed a sudden bout of nausea. Even so, they grimly picked themselves up and Ed took the lead, passing the letter from Madame Locksley to the two wizard attendants. The wizards looked a bit amused as they set up the second Portkey and sent Team One on their way.

* * * * *

While the first Portkey had been bad, it was _nothing_ compared to the second Portkey. When they landed, the team opted to stay flopped on the ground, utterly miserable and hoping the world would stop spinning soon, thank you. And that their stomachs would stay in place…

After several minutes, they peeled themselves off the ground and rather pathetically fell in behind their not-so-fearless-anymore team leader. “Tell me the Portkey to London isn’t this bad,” Ed practically begged the witch running the Ireland International Portkey area.

“It’s not,” the witch replied, taking the letter Ed surrendered and giving them a sympathetic look. “First time traveling internationally?”

“First time doing it by Portkey,” Sam muttered under his breath as his teammates agreed and the kids – the rotten, lucky, magical _brats_ – shook their heads ‘no’; the kids weren’t anywhere _near_ as bad off as their adult counterparts, which just added insult to injury as far as the Squib-born was concerned.

Even with the witch’s reassurances, a great many glares were cast at the third Portkey; ‘hell on earth’ was a _very_ good description. The sympathetic witch offered up a few ideas and tips on how the adults could at least keep their feet – and their stomachs – in place and, at last, they were off again.

* * * * *

For the third time that day Team One landed and finally managed the feat of keeping their balance, though that had more to do with the kindly tech-born witch and the shorter distance than experience. The clerks in the London Ministry of Magic surveyed their visitors, sneering at the techies’ uniforms and duffle bags; Sam, shielded by his teammates’ bulk, sneered back. Talk about purebloods at their bureaucratic worst.

The London Ministry of Magic was…interesting, to say the least. It was clear they didn’t often use International Portkeys; their International Portkey Department was less than a third of the size of Toronto’s International Portkey Division and they didn’t have separate arrival/departure areas. The sneering clerks turned out to be smug, bigoted idiots who were _highly_ offended by the very _idea_ of Muggleborn Aurors – the team did not see fit to correct their error – even if said Aurors were from another country.

Ed, finally losing his temper, snapped, “Look, we get it; you don’t like Muggleborns. We really couldn’t care less, just tell us where we need to go to reach Diagon Alley!”

Lance and Alanna exchanged looks when the clerks merely sneered again and didn’t respond. The teen cleared his throat. “Does Britain expect newly arrived tourists to know their way around like locals?” he inquired rather pointedly, sarcasm lacing his voice. The clerks’ eyes turned to him and they almost literally put their noses in the air in response to the – they assumed – Muggleborn wizard, sniffing in disdain. When they still failed to respond, Lance rolled his eyes and headed for the door, calling, “I know the way, Uncle Ed,” over his shoulder. Alanna kept pace with her brother, though she did cast a disapproving look at the snobbish clerks.

Team One was quick to follow their youngest members; they ignored the two irritated clerks. Down the hallway, Lance tapped the button to summon the lift and shifted back on his heels, waiting. Fortunately, only the attendant and the usual flock of interdepartmental memo paper airplanes were in the lift, allowing the entire team to crowd in. The magical lift’s ride was smoother than a tech lift, but the presence of golden ropes to hang onto was a hint that they didn’t always run so smoothly. The attendant never even looked at his passengers, merely sending the lift to the atrium and letting them off.

Once in the atrium, Team One stopped to stare. The polished wooden floor got an appreciative look from Jules, but most of their attention went to the beautiful blue ceiling inlaid with shifting golden symbols. On each side of the atrium were fireplaces, gilded and in constant use as wizards arrived and departed.

Beyond the fireplaces, a golden fountain loomed, with a witch and wizard standing proudly with wands raised over a centaur, a goblin, and another creature. The three non-humans were looking up at the wizards adoringly; the team couldn’t help a snicker or two at the _highly_ unrealistic scene – they might not know _everything_ about the magical world, but even _they_ knew the fountain’s ideal was pure nonsense.

In the meantime, the two teens looked at each other, nervous. Flooing was much faster, a plus, but none of Team One had ever done it before. Still, with time running shorter with each tick of the clock, the pair led their adult friends to the nearest outbound fireplace and gave them a short explanation.

“Flooing is simple,” Alanna told the nervous adults, “Take a handful of Floo powder, toss it on the fire, and once the fire turns green, speak your destination clearly and walk in.”

“Walk in?” Lou asked, beating his teammates to the punch by milliseconds.

Both teens nodded. “The Floo powder makes a fireplace harmless, as long as you wait for it to turn green,” Lance informed them. “We’re headed for the Leaky Cauldron, Britain’s main gateway into Diagon Alley. I’ll go first, Alanna goes last.” He tilted his head, then added, “Floo spins a little like a Portkey, but not as bad. To keep from falling, you spin the opposite direction right before you get to your destination.”

Team One’s enthusiasm for magical travel, already low after the Portkeys, dropped further. But there was no time to protest, so they watched in resignation as Lance scooped up a handful of Floo powder, flung it into the fire, and called, “Diagon Alley,” as he stepped into the green flames. In an instant, he was gone.

* * * * *

Lance grinned as he stepped out into the Leaky Cauldron. Toronto was home now, but he and ‘Lanna _had_ been born in Britain; it was their homeland and would always have a place in their hearts. “Hi Tom,” he greeted the old bartender, stepping up the counter. “I’ve got a couple of Floo newbies coming, could you cast a Cushioning Charm for them?”

Tom, long used to tech-borns and their parents, chuckled and cast the charm. He had excellent timing for no sooner had the charm taken affect, then Ed stumbled out of the fireplace and promptly fell flat on his face. Lance managed to haul the tall man out of the way before Spike tumbled out with a yell, followed by Sam, who landed on his feet. Sam dragged Spike to the side and clear of the fireplace, smirking. _Oh, yeah, Squib-born,_ Lance realized with some chagrin.

Lou managed to stick the landing as well; a feat Jules almost copied, except she tripped at the last second with a tiny yelp. Wordy was the last of the techies and he ended up matching some of Harry Potter’s most spectacular landings as he sprawled out of the fireplace and rolled off the Cushioning Charm into the counter. Alanna’s arrival was prim; she stepped out of the fireplace with an easy grace and a flip of her long hair. Lance tipped Tom for his help and, once Team One had put themselves together again, led the way into the small courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron.

With a flourish, Lance tapped the bricks and announced, “Welcome to Diagon Alley.” The archway bricks slid apart and reassembled themselves, revealing a broad walkway and a line of shops very similar to Toronto’s own magical mall. Looming at the end of the alley was another familiar sight: Gringotts in all its glory.

Sam whistled low, looking around at the hustle and bustle as they moved through the alley. “Looks pretty busy,” he observed.

“Yeah, it’s pretty much one of two, three if you count Knockturn Alley, magical shopping areas in Britain,” Lance agreed. “The other big area is Hogsmeade, near Hogwarts. Hogsmeade is the only all magical village in Britain, so it does a pretty brisk business too.”

“And Knockturn?” Lou asked curiously.

Lance looked over his shoulder, shrugging. “Our parents never let us go in; it’s supposed to be home to a lot of shops right on the edge of being dark. Most of them toe the Ministry’s legal line, but it’s still mostly borderline stuff in there.”

As they reached Gringotts’ wide steps, the boy halted and turned, fixing the adults with a gimlet eye. “Please, please, _please_ , let me do all the talking here. Gringotts in general is technically neutral and most goblins don’t care what your blood status is, as long as your gold is good, but Gringotts London still has a huge grudge left over from the Second War. They’re a lot quicker to take offense and some of them think the biggest reason the Golden Trio managed to rob them is because Lord Potter and Mrs. Weasley are tech-raised.”

“Wait, they robbed Gringotts?” Wordy asked in confusion, but Sam was nodding.

“Long story short, Wordy, they had to in order to win the war,” the blond said flatly. He looked down at the teens and promised, “I’ll keep everyone quiet.”

Lance threw Sam a grateful look and led the way in. Team One observed differences between Gringotts London and Gringotts Toronto almost at once. For one, the goblins were a lot more surly and brisk with their customers, though they were never outright rude. For two, each goblin teller eyed Team One with considerable suspicion, their eyes lingering on the constables’ uniforms, sidearms, and badges. The teller Lance spoke with was marginally more polite, though he looked as if he’d bitten into a lemon when Lance requested a trip to his vault; the teen laid out a small, glittering, golden key. The group was escorted to the vault carts by another goblin, this one openly scowling at the techies. The techies hardly noticed, too busy checking out the tunnels and caves that made up the vault area.

Sam whispered a warning about the carts to his teammates before they got in, a warning they appreciated as soon as the cart took off at speeds more suited to a rollercoaster. The cart made a number of twists and turns as it descended through the tunnels. Other tracks branched off and there were glimpses of other carts, a flash of dragonfire, and open vaults with patrons inside. The deeper they went, the colder the air became as it whistled past the cart and the more security measures the vaults had. By the time the cart came to a halt, the vaults looked ancient and ornate, their doors inlaid with precious metals.

The vault they stopped at loomed above the group, the door inlaid with a silvery metal that gleamed in the lamplight. The silvery metal formed the shape of a shield, with elegant detailing around the edges, a lion rampant crest, ivy leaves engraved above the crest, and ivy vines at the bottom of the shield. Two more ivy leaves were on the sides of the shield, underneath two of several inward sweeping curves in the shield that hinted at slim branches and ran under the crest to connect the lower ivy vines with the upper ivy branches. The lion rampant was a proud red hue and the detailing was gilt gold. In the center of the detailing, right above the lion’s head, the gold detailing formed a subtle crown. The platform was rough hewn stone, looking rather out of place next to the ornate vault door.

Their goblin cart driver clambered out of the cart, turning with a brusque, “Lamp, please.” Spike unhooked the Victorian-style lamp from the cart and passed it to Ed, who passed it to the goblin. The goblin hooked the lamp to a pole on the platform, throwing additional light onto the area.

Turning back to the cart, the goblin requested, “Key, please.” Lance offered the vault key; the goblin took it and walked to the right side of the massive door. The goblin ran a finger over an invisible seam in the metal; a panel slid out and aside, revealing a keyhole. The vault key went in the keyhole, turning with a loud click. The vault door didn’t move, but the goblin was unconcerned. He walked to the center of the door and laid his hand on a panel that had materialized right underneath the shield. There was another click, a rumble, and long-unused gears ground into motion.

The vault door slid back in its frame, then began to rise; light spilled out from behind the vault door as it rose. Once the door had disappeared into the ceiling, the goblin walked back to the vault key and removed it from the keyhole. The humans climbed out of the cart, impressed by both the vault door and the contents inside the vault. Visible through the door were mounds of gold, smaller mounds of silver, and a tiny hill of bronze. Past the money, they could see other items: the furniture, bookshelves, and jewelry displays were the easiest to spot from outside the vault.

The goblin offered the key back to Lance and brusquely inquired, “You will be using the Portkey?”

Team One made faces at the question, but kept quiet. Lance didn’t look over at them, but he did incline his head.

With a slight return bow, the goblin replied, “Very good, Heir Calvin. Good profit to you.”

“May your gold always flow,” Lance returned, earning a startled look from the goblin before he grunted and turned surly again.

The group was ushered into the vault, the massive door beginning to lower behind them. A slim, chest high pedestal stood in front of the money piles, a key laying atop it. The key was an old skeleton key, much larger than a typical key. Lance picked up the key and turned, holding it out for everyone to touch. Reluctantly, Team One took hold, Alanna grabbing on last. Softly, Lance ordered, “Narnia bring me home,” and the Portkey pulled them away.

When they landed, they were in front of a grand manor built in the Jacobean prodigy house style. Beautifully landscaped gardens ran around the outside of the house, displaying an abundance of flowers, ivy, and other plants. The manor doors, facing the new arrivals, were curved, like the stone archways to either side, made of English oak and stained to a dark finish. The brick walls rose above them, double columns framing the door and front windows up to the third floor of the building. The SRU cops caught a glimpse of what looked like domes on the roof, but they were too close to the building to really see them. Just as the adults were craning their necks to see the gardens and building better, the doors gave a low creak, then swung open by themselves, revealing an elegant marble and wood hallway.

It was Alanna who turned, giving all of them a tentative smile. “Welcome to Calvin Manor.”


	6. Narnia and Camelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to Sherza and whoever may have inspired his design of the Potter Family library in his Harry Potter series “Families and Familiars.” (Posted on Fanfiction.net) I was (and am) impressed with his ideas of how a magical library can work and borrowed it for the Calvin Family library.
> 
> Calvin Manor (both here and in “Intersection”) is based on Lara Croft’s manor from Tomb Raider: Legends, which is itself based on Hatfield House, an actual building in England. To make sure everyone is on the same page, I will be referring to the ‘ground floor’, the ‘first floor’ and the ‘second floor.’ Just consider all of them separate floors, with the ground floor (naturally) being on the bottom. See below for a visual representation.
> 
> Second Floor  
> First Floor  
> Ground Floor

It was Spike who voiced what they were all thinking, “You guys used to live _here_?”

The teenagers looked at each other, then back at the constables. “Yeah?” Lance replied, tilting his head in a ‘why’ motion.

Sam was gaping even worse than the rest. “Just how old _is_ your family?” he managed. This place practically screamed old, wealthy, _powerful_ – even more than the vault had.

“Our family remembers Camelot,” Alanna remarked quietly. “The founding of Hogwarts, the beginning of the Statute of Secrecy; Dad once said our family doesn’t _remember_ history, we _are_ history.” Her expression was wistful as she looked around at the estate. “Generations of our family have lived here, but don’t let the building fool you, it’s brand new.”

“Brand new?” Jules queried, looking closer at the stone, wood, and brick. “It doesn’t look it.”

“They might have been able to save some of the old building,” Lance informed them, leading the way inside, “But the fire two years ago destroyed most of the manor. We saw the roof collapse before we left.”

The adults exchanged looks at the inadvertent reminder of why the kids had moved to Toronto in the first place. Inside the building, the main hall was a mix of elegant and comfortable. The staircases were wide, graceful wooden ones; sweeping up to a landing with a large stained glass window, then turning ninety degrees to either side to lead up to the first floor. Ahead of the group, on the ground floor, two large, comfortable sofas and a low table stood in front of a marble fireplace. More chairs were scattered around the floor, though there was plenty of free space as well. Brand new it might have been, but it didn’t have that painfully new look; it looked as if the building and the rooms inside had stood for a thousand years and could stand a thousand more without strain.

The kids were looking around with fond, reminiscing looks, comfortable with their surroundings. Their guests were far more uneasy; none of them came from old money like this, none of them lived in houses that could pass for museums. The adults traded wary looks, honestly unsure of how to handle themselves inside of a home that fairly screamed of old money, maybe even nobility. For crying out loud, there was even a _chandelier_ in the main hall, glittering with fine cut crystal.

Spike, naturally, broke the moment with a wolf-whistle. “This place is _nice_.”

Jules, admiring the architecture, furniture, and the stained glass windows, agreed. “Living in an apartment after this must have been pretty hard.”

The teens traded looks at the comment, looking a trifle uncomfortable. “At first, maybe,” Alanna admitted. “But, um, we got used to it; plus, Uncle Greg got a bigger apartment, so that helped too.”

Wordy and Ed traded looks of their own, guessing at what the kids _weren’t_ saying. That staying in a place so different from what they’d lost had probably been easier for them at first, even if it was smaller. Lou beat them to the punch, though, asking, “So what now?”

Lance gave a tiny shrug. “Library’s upstairs…that part of the house won’t be brand new; the library has its own wards, so the fire never touched it.” Sam’s eyebrows shot up at that and he looked impressed – truthfully, they were all impressed that a library could actually survive a fire. “Mindy can take our bags up and get dinner started; we probably can’t get much done today, but we can at least get started.” At the nods of agreement, Lance called, “Mindy.”

With a _pop_ , a short figure appeared and gave a squeaking cry of joy as she spotted the two teens. “Young Master, Young Mistress,” she cried and flung herself at Alanna, who was closer.

Alanna knelt, catching the creature in a hug and exclaiming, “Mindy!”

Mindy had large, long ears, spindly limbs, and wore what looked like a pillowcase, albeit a very nice pillowcase. She squirmed free of Alanna’s hug, looking as uncomfortable as Team One felt. They openly stared at the small creature; not even Sam knew what she was. “Mistress should not be hugging Mindy,” she squeaked.

Alanna was having none of it. “We missed you, Mindy,” she told the small creature. “Have you been taking care of the manor by yourself?”

Mindy shifted, unwilling to say ‘yes,’ though the answer was clear in her body language. Lance didn’t wait for her reply. “Mindy, the manor’s too big for just one house-elf to clean,” he pointed out, working to keep his tone non-judgmental.

His efforts to keep from alarming the small elf failed; Mindy started to cry. “Mindy is knowing, Master, but Mindy is being the only elf left.”

“Lion’s Mane,” Lance breathed, looking horrified; his sister looked sick. “The other elves?”

“They is dying with Master and Mistress,” Mindy sniffed.

Wordy spotted Ed about to make what looked like a sharp, cutting comment; he stamped on Ed’s foot to keep him quiet and spoke up himself. “Um, explanation please? Before Ed says something we’ll all regret.”

Alanna still looked sick, so Lance explained. “Mindy is our house-elf, we’ve known her since we were little. All of the old families have elves to work around the estates; they cook, clean, stuff like that.” For a moment, Lance looked…hesitant, then he continued, “Every elf bonds to the family they work for; the bond stabilizes their magic, but it does mean they’re stuck…elves can only be freed from the bond if they’re given clothes.” Mindy’s opinion of clothes was made clear as she gave a tiny wail and started twisting her ears. “Mindy, stop,” Lance immediately ordered, “I’m just explaining; they’ve never met a house-elf before.” The elf obeyed at once, her ears literally perking up at the reassurance.

Even Sam was taken aback by the teen’s words; the whole arrangement sounded like slavery to them. But Mindy, seeing their shocked expressions and understanding them, piped up herself. “Mindy is agreeing with Master, wes elves is needing a family to bond with. Mindy told Mistress when Mistress first came, elves is having chaos magic before wizards is bonding elves to families. Old elves is dying from chaos magic, but old wizards is helping elves, so elves is helping wizards.” Of course, the long, rambling, and grammatically incorrect explanation didn’t make much sense, but the teens, used to house-elf speech, translated for their techie friends.

“Sorry, that’s how elves talk,” Alanna quickly tacked on, her voice still subdued from Mindy’s news. “Mindy means that before house-elves bonded to wizarding families, their chaotic magic would actually kill them. When they started bonding to families, their magic latched onto the families’ magic and settled down. I’m not saying it’s perfect; it’s not, but no one’s ever come up with a better answer.”

Sam spoke up from his own position, half on his team’s side and half on the kids’ side. “I’ve never seen a house-elf before, guys, but my father’s family had elves; I get the feeling they’re pretty common in the magical world.”

“Depends,” Lance admitted. “You’re more likely to see them in the older, ultra-rich families and a lot of those families go out of their way to make it harder for anyone else to have house-elves. Hogwarts has house-elves too; Hufflepuff started that with the founding so abused elves could have a safe place to go and work. Plus the school is so big that they really need a lot of elves to get things done.” Well aware of how the whole house-elf arrangement looked to the techies, he looked away, ashamed and avoiding the looks he was getting. Alanna bit her lip, just as unsure in the face of their family’s unhappy expressions.

It was Ed who moved first and he tilted the teen’s chin up; sapphire meeting sapphire. “Hey, hey, I almost overreacted; good thing Wordy stopped me, yeah? I won’t say I’m comfortable with any of this, but that’s not your fault, it’s just how it is. I can deal, we can deal.” Ed looked over at his teammates, a warning look in his eyes. This wasn’t about them anyway, it was about getting their boss back; after that, they could deal with the magical world being out of date by several centuries.

If Ed’s look hadn’t been enough, the uncertain looks coming from Lance and Alanna would have been more than enough; Team One backed down from their 21st century indignation, it wasn’t worth hurting family over. Lance knelt down next to Mindy and spoke quietly to her, arranging the rooms, dinner, and telling her to start looking for new elves. She bowed, collected all the luggage, and _popped_ away.

* * * * *

As if the manor and Mindy the house-elf hadn’t been enough surprises for one day, the team had one more surprise waiting for them on the second floor. The library was massive; large enough to put most public libraries to shame, it filled most of the floor and had the understated elegance of an old British family library. Bookshelves rose to the rafters, ladders rising with them. There was room to move between the shelves, but the team suspected the room was also far larger than it looked, for there were shelves as far as the eye could see, each one towering higher than the hallway ceiling outside the library.

Near the front of the room was a podium with a ledger on it, next to a table. The seating for the library was grouped close to the podium and table; comfortable sofas and chairs stood in a rough circle and a low table lurked in the middle of that circle.

Lance headed over the podium, only turning back once he was at the ledger. “Obviously, the library’s too big to search through with any kind of speed, but we don’t have to either.” He patted the ledger. “This ledger is connected to the library; all we have to do is write the topic we’re looking for and the library will send all relevant books to this table.”

“And if what we need isn’t in there?” Ed asked, sticking to practical concerns, though he was impressed by the magical book retrieval.

Lance looked unhappy. “We’d better hope it is, Uncle Ed. If it’s not, we _will_ have to search the entire library.”

Silence fell as the adults regarded the library again. “Oh, boy,” Wordy muttered.

Lance picked up the quill next to the ledger and wrote something down in the book. The book gave a brief, green glow and, after a moment, books began to appear on the table. So many, in fact, that both teens had to steady the stacks and keep the tomes from falling.

“Might have been too general there,” Lou observed.

“Yeah,” Lance agreed as he braced the stacks and let Alanna start organizing them. “No choice, Uncle Lou; the goblins didn’t have enough information to narrow it down farther than books with soul magic in them. ‘Lanna, start with Old Magic,” he added to his sister.

“I know,” Alanna replied, passing several of the tomes to the adults. For several minutes, it was a book brigade as the books were passed from Alanna to the low table in the reading area. By the end, there was a good sized stack of books on the low table and the ledger table’s piles of books were more manageable.

“You can go ahead and start,” Lance called as he and Alanna began to organize the remaining ledger-summoned books, “Most of them should be in English, even if it’s old-fashioned. If it’s not, just ask us or grab a different book.”

With the clock ticking, Team One followed the suggestion, digging into the books for anything that had to do with lost souls.

* * * * *

They broke for dinner, though Mindy had to come get them; the small elf threatened to pry them out of the library when some of the adults tried to put her off. Once she’d succeeded in getting the group out of the library, she dragged them down to the first floor and an elegant dining room that might have awed them if they hadn’t been so tired and frustrated.

Dinner was subdued and quiet; the wonder of the house faded in light of the seemingly impossible task, the inevitable jetlag, and the harsh realities of the magical world. The jetlag finally won the battle after dinner; all of them ended up crashing in their rooms rather than going back to the library.

* * * * *

In the end, the answer to their dilemma wasn’t in just one book; it was spread out over several books. Jules found the first piece of the puzzle midmorning in a deceptively thin Calvin family diary dated to shortly after the fall of Camelot.

“Guys, I think I found something,” Jules said, slow and still not quite sure of what she’d found.

Attention focused on her at once, the rest not having had any luck with their large, hefty tomes. “What have you got?” Ed asked.

Jules laid the book out and started explaining. “It’s not what we’re looking for, Ed, but I think it might be part of it. This looks like a family diary.”

Alanna got behind Jules, inspecting the book herself and nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, family diary,” she agreed. “Some of them do have spells in there…meant for family heads rather than the whole family.” At Jules’ look she added, “Don’t worry about it, Aunt Jules; if the diary had any spells like that, the diary would’ve had another spell on it to keep you from even reading it.”

“So what did you find?” Lou queried.

“It’s odd, Lou; it’s almost like someone was trying to preserve history, even if just in a diary,” Jules replied. “This is talking about a spellbook of the Old Religion, given to the family by an ‘Emrys’ and passed down to the first son in each generation. There’s also a mention of another gift from ‘Emrys’…a spell meant to save a soul.”

Lance and Alanna looked stunned by the news. “E-Emrys?” Alanna stuttered.

“Blimey,” Lance breathed, running a hand through his hair.

“Who’s Emrys?” Spike questioned.

“Merlin,” Sam piped in, looking just as caught off guard by Jules’ discovery. “Wow, I know you said your family remembered Camelot…but Merlin himself?”

“What, like the sword in the stone? King Arthur? That Merlin?” Ed asked.

“Yeah, Ed, that Merlin,” Sam confirmed. “Jules, anything about that spell in the diary?”

“Sorry, Sam, no,” Jules apologized. She noted down what she’d found and the group went back to searching.

* * * * *

With the first clue coming from a family diary, the other diaries were targeted as the searchers reached the end of their current tomes, one by one. Wordy snagged the last diary to Ed’s visible dismay; the team leader had to go for a different book, grumbling under his breath about annoying best friends. Wordy opted to ignore the team leader’s sour grapes; he opened the diary and immediately had to snatch a loose piece of parchment as it slid from in between the pages. Naturally, he read the page before sliding it back in; the contents drew a startled gasp from him. Lance, seated on the floor right by him, heard the gasp and looked up, one brow rising at the look on his pseudo uncle’s face. The page was thrust at him; he blinked and took it.

_To Amelia Calvin,_

_My lady, I apologize for being the bearer of bad tidings, but it is my sad duty to inform you of the death of your late, honored brother, Sir Lancelot. Your brother was one of my dearest friends and I will miss him sorely; his sacrifice was not in vain, though, for he saved all of Camelot and the Prince Regent. While I know that is little comfort to you and your family, please know that all of Camelot mourns with you. Should you, or your family, require my aid or the aid of Camelot, write at once and we will come. I know Prince Arthur is in full agreement with me on this point; we can do no less for the family of one of Camelot’s finest knights._

_I am,_

_Merlin Emrys, Personal Manservant to Prince Arthur_

The parchment was faded, folded, and much worn, but the implications, that the Calvin family was related to Sir Lancelot of the Round Table…they made Lance’s eyes widen in utter shock. “By the Lion,” he whispered to himself, looking back up at Uncle Wordy. “Is that her diary?”

“Yeah,” Uncle Wordy confirmed, he’d just checked. “Probably isn’t related, but…that’s, that’s…” He rubbed his head, not even sure what word to use.

Pure mischief gleamed in Lance’s eyes. “Maybe what we have to do is summon Merlin, King Arthur, and the Knights of the Round Table, tell them what happened, then sit back and watch the fireworks.”

Wordy laughed at the image, the rest of the group snickering. “Would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

* * * * *

Spike read and reread what he’d just found, the implications sinking in as he read it over a third time. That playful comment of Lance’s hadn’t been all that too far off the mark after all. He swallowed hard, this wasn’t going to be easy, or fun, and he could only pray they didn’t lose anyone.

“Guys,” he announced, reluctance in every line of his body, “I think I found it; I think I found Merlin’s spell.”

The kids fairly pounced, examining the spell Spike pointed towards. After a minute or so, Ed asked, “Well?”

“This is the spell, all right,” Lance reported, wary tension in his frame.

“But it’s only half the battle,” Alanna added unhappily. “It’ll get us to _where_ Uncle Greg is, but then we have to find him…in the Netherworld.”

Lou summed up what all of the adults were thinking, “What’s the Netherworld?”


	7. Camelot's Legacy

With the puzzle mostly filled in, the group reconvened in the main hall, diaries and additional parchment in tow. Lance summoned Mindy, hoping that she could help them out somehow. For her benefit and to summarize their findings thus far, he laid out what they’d found.

“Okay, Exhibit A,” he grinned at the rolled eyes he got from the techies. “Turns out our family is descended from the sister of Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table and close friend to Merlin Emrys.”

Alanna jumped in, “Enter Exhibit B, the fact that Emrys must have befriended our family as well because he gave Sir Lancelot’s nephew a spellbook full of Old Magic; we think that spellbook is still being used as the family grimoire today. He also gave the family a spell of his own creation, meant to be used to find a lost soul; it opens a path into the Netherworld.”

Mindy squeaked in alarm. “No, Mistress; the Netherworld is being very bad. Master and Mistress and Master and Mistress’s friends should not be going into Netherworld.”

Several protests rang out; the elf cowered at the noise. Lance knelt down, waiting for the protests to stop, then said simply, “Mindy, two years ago, a man I greatly respect and admire took two orphans he’d never even really met before into his home and his life. Everything we lost that night and he took us in; no arguments, no questions, he just took us in.” A tear slipped free, Lance dashed it away angrily. “I can’t give up on him, Mindy, no matter what.”

“ _We_ can’t give up on him, brother mine,” Alanna corrected. Looking down at the house-elf, she asked, “Mindy, what’s the Netherworld?”

The house-elf twisted her ears, looking utterly miserable and woebegone. “The Netherworld is being where demons live,” she whispered. “Elves were not having chaos magic before demons came and stole elves away.” The humans traded shocked looks; even the teens hadn’t had any idea about _this_ piece of house-elf history. “Wes elves is serving demons and demons is changing elf magic to chaos magic. Wes did not live long in Netherworld, so demons is having lots of elves and elflings. Mindy’s great-great grandmother is being one of the elves serving…” she hesitated, then managed, in very soft, barely audible voice to say, “Tolay.”

“Tolay? Who’s that?” Jules questioned, careful to keep her voice neutral to avoid alarming the small, huddled elf.

Though Mindy had said the name only moments earlier, she squeaked her alarm and abruptly charged headfirst at the nearby sofa; Lance swept in and yanked her off the ground. “Mindy!” he growled, “What’s the first rule of working for our family?”

“Mindy is sorry, Master,” the elf wailed, “But Tolay is being the one who made wes elves punish ourselves. Wes is never to speak of _him_ to each other, but some elves is doing that, so _he_ commanded wes elves to punish ourselves if _his_ name is being said.”

“And _his_ orders overrule our family’s?” the teen asked, his eyes glinting dangerously.

“Yes, Master,” Mindy whimpered. “So long as,” she gulped and forced out, “ _Tolay_.” Then she squeaked and thrashed mindlessly for several seconds, trying to get free from Lance’s grip to punish herself. When she recovered, she continued, “So long as _he_ is being, then elves is being forced to obey _him_ as long as _his_ orders are not against elves’s family.”

Lance allowed an angry hiss, but nodded. “Okay, anything else you know about the Netherworld in general, Mindy?”

Mindy considered that carefully, but eventually shook her head. “Mindy’s grandmother is being one of the elves in _his_ fortress, so she is not seeing the Netherworld much.” As Lance gingerly set her down, the house-elf cocked her head to the side. “Mindy’s grandmother is saying that Netherworld is very big with no plants, no animals. Only demons and their servants live there. Mindy’s grandmother is telling Mindy as an elfling that there is being lots of rocks and all of Netherworld serves the demons.”

“Lovely,” Ed muttered under his breath.

The teens traded grim looks, but Alanna sighed to herself and remarked, “We can go ‘round and ‘round in circles or we can move on and save Uncle Greg.”

“And revisit this later,” Lance agreed.

Alanna paused, glancing around long enough to make sure the adults were onboard with moving on, then, as perkily as possible, announced, “Okay, Exhibit B – Emrys’s spellbook – leads us to Exhibit C, a journal written by Sir Lancelot’s nephew about the items Emrys entrusted to the family.”

Spike took his cue and held up the book he’d been reading from. “Guys, from what I can tell, Merlin gave the family a whole bunch of stuff to look after – besides just that spellbook – and, you guessed it, one of ‘em is the spell we’re after.”

Lance looked up, grim and determined. “Trouble is, the spell’s more than _just_ a spell, it’s got a list of requirements we have to meet before it’ll work. First, _we_ , as in ‘Lanna and me, have to cast the spell because it will _only_ work for a Calvin ‘warlock.’ ”

“Second,” Alanna jumped in, “The spell calls for a group of knights, equal in number to the first Knights of the Round Table.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Ed grumbled, “How many more people do we need?”

“We’re good, Ed,” Spike replied; he’d just double-checked. “It’s almost like whoever wrote this knew who’d be using this spell…” He trailed off a moment, thinking, then asked, “Could he have?”

Alanna was thoughtful. “Maybe. Even in the magical world, most of the information about Emrys is legend, not solid fact. He _was_ said to be the most powerful sorcerer who had ever lived and who ever _will_ live.”

With a shrug, Spike moved on. “Um, guys, if I’m reading this right, we can’t take our guns.”

“What?” Ed demanded, the rest of the team looking equally unhappy with the idea.

Lance peeked over Spike’s arm to read the text. “He’s right. The part that calls for knights? It implies that any ‘knights’ will have the same weapons as a Knight of Camelot would have. Swords and bows are about as technologically advanced as they _got_ back then.”

“Great,” Lou groaned. “Where are we going to get those?”

Spike, speed-reading through the small diary again, whistled, “Hey, this says your family has the swords from the Knights of the Round Table.” Alanna promptly wriggled in to read the text.

“Say what?” Wordy questioned, looking startled by the idea. Of course, none of them had ever really thought about Camelot being _real_ , rather than just legend.

Jules whistled. “Dibs on Excalibur,” she joked.

“Sorry Aunt Jules,” Alanna replied. “Excalibur probably isn’t one of them; Emrys wouldn’t have risked having anyone except King Arthur use a dragon-forged blade.” She cocked her head, thinking. “Wonder where the swords are hidden?”

“I bet I know,” Lance remarked, looking a bit flummoxed at how much Emrys had entrusted to his family. “Treasures like that? Definitely the family vault.”

“So, back to the family vault,” Alanna decided, writing down another to do list.

Spike waved the book to get attention back. “And, uh, figure out how to get to this isle place…uh, um, the Isle of the Blessed.”

Alanna nodded acknowledgement, adding that to her list.

“And see if Silnok’s back in England,” Lance added. “He might have a few ideas too; weapons are good, but if we’re going to the _Netherworld_ , I want armor.”

On this point they were all agreed, especially after hearing Mindy’s story; the techies were _unhappy_ with leaving their usual equipment behind as it was. Together, the group also decided to postpone the expedition to the following day as, by the time they had most of the details hashed out, it was early evening.

Lance and Alanna spent the remaining hours until dinner calming Mindy down and coaxing her into telling them the stories her grandmother had told her about the Netherworld and the elves from _before_ their enslavement by the Netherworld’s demons.

* * * * *

Silnok had not been idle, indeed not. As soon as Healer Thorncrusher confirmed Silnok’s private suspicions concerning Greg Parker’s diagnosis, the account manager was on the move. He arrived in England before the Calvins and Team One, if only by a matter of hours, and descended on Gringotts London with the wrath of a goblin scorned. By the time he was done, he had an office of his own, every single one of his demands had been met, and his part of the plan was in motion. He was unsurprised when, two days after his arrival, a teller arrived in his temporary office with the Heirs Calvin and their pseudo adopted techie family.

To his extreme pleasure, the techies already sported swords that he recognized as belonging to the Knights of the Round Table. “Ahh,” he almost purred. “I see you have discovered Emrys’s spell.”

All of them stopped, staring at him. “You knew?” Lance asked.

Silnok inclined his head, offering an apologetic look to the teen. “We were bound not to speak of it, Heir Calvin. If things were not so dire, I would never countenance using the spell at all, never mind at your age.”

“But things have reached this point,” Lance pointed out sadly.

“They have,” Silnok agreed solemnly. “I have acquired additional equipment to add to what you already possess, Heir Calvin.” With no additional fanfare, the goblin gestured, several boxes rising up from behind his desk. He opened the first three, revealing wooden recurve bows that sported simple leather grips and matching quivers full of arrows. “For your snipers,” he said simply, “These bows do not easily miss.” Jules, Sam, and Ed each took one of the bows and slung the quivers over their heads, the quivers settling into place on their backs.

Rather than close the boxes, Silnok beckoned the other three techies forward and pulled shields from the boxes. They were remarkable similar to the shield on the Calvin vault door, if far less decorated and absent the ‘crown’ above the lion crest. “These shields are proof against the majority of curses, both light and dark, though I would not care to test them against the Killing Curse. Bear them well.” Wordy, Lou, and Spike traded surprised looks, but took the shields and slung them across their backs into place.

Two more boxes drifted forward and Silnok gestured the teenagers forward. “Would that these could be given under better circumstances, but needs must.” From the first box, Silnok drew a sword, silver with gold engraving on the blade, a red leather handgrip, and a gold lion’s head as the pommel. “For you, young Lancelot, a blade forged in the image of the High King Peter’s sword.” Lance accepted the sword and matching sheath, sliding the sword into the sheath and fastening the sheath in place around his waist at once.

From the second box, Silnok drew a bow, much like the three bows already given to Team One, but also different. It was made of wood, like the other bows, but its grip was crafted with red leather and stitched with gold thread; the tips of the recurve bow were ivory. The quiver was much different than the Team One quivers, made of a solid piece of ivory and exquisitely carved with ivy vines and leaves around the quiver’s mouth. The initials AC were inlaid in the designs with silver and the quiver possessed a red leather carry strap. The arrows sported red fletching with a touch of golden hue at the bottom of the fletching. “And for you, young Alanna, a bow after the heart of Queen Susan the Gentle. Bear it well and it shall not easily miss.” Alanna took the bow and quiver, carrying them back to her chair so she could examine them more closely.

Two more boxes hovered in the air, one larger than the other; Silnok beckoned the smaller box forward first. “Heir Calvin, when I ordered weapons for you and your sister, the dwarven smiths of Narnia realized I had not asked for armor. How they obtained your measurements, I do not know for sure – though I suspect the Lion had something to do with the matter – but they sent armor for you both, in a style that I believe will suit the two of you well.” The box floated over to the two siblings, Lance inclining his head in thanks.

Silnok turned towards Team One, the last box drifting forward. “This armor is in much the same style as the Heirs Calvin,” he informed them, giving them a wide, pointed smile. “All of the armor is resistant to spells and anything else you might find in the Netherworld; it is yours to keep and you may find it helpful in times to come. There is one further set of armor for your Sergeant; you may leave it behind or take it with you into the Netherworld. The choice is yours.” The goblin made one last gesture and a door appeared in the wall behind him. “I’ve made arrangements for you to use the room behind me to change; less time wasted that way.”

* * * * *

In most respects, the armor was a reminder of the days when men fought with swords and bows, on horseback and on foot, rather than with wits and guns, as Team One was accustomed to doing. In other respects, the armor was a reflection of the uniforms Team One had tucked into their duffle bags, for, like the uniforms, the armor had modern patches and was mostly black. The patches were a mix of familiar and unfamiliar. Each SRU set of armor sported three patches: the familiar SRU patch, a patch styled after their Auror badges, and a shield shaped red patch that had a gold lion rampant on it. The last patch was also on the kids’ armor, which lacked the former two patches.

Every set of armor also had the last name of its owner on the individual pieces, with the most prominent embroidered in white on the back of the jackets. The undershirt, barely peeking out from under the rest of the armor, was gray. The tunic above it was black and acted as the first layer of protection. Over the tunic and the undershirt was a jacket made of leather, tough and sturdy, but the ever-so-slightly scaled leather wasn’t a type any of them had ever seen before, not even the kids.

The jacket’s thinnest and most vulnerable area was the forearms, so the armor also had vambraces, stitched and etched with a curious runic design and the faint outline of a running lion. The stitching was the second visible change in the SRU color scheme; it had been done in silver thread. Included with the vambraces were gloves that fit better than any gloves the team had ever worn before, tailored to each of them.

Belts fastened around their waists, the buckles providing the third difference from the black color scheme; they were emerald green, shaped like a leaf, and veined with silver. The belts themselves were wide enough and sturdy enough that, in future, they could hold the team’s sidearm holsters and equipment pouches. The armor’s slim, lightweight leggings tucked into knee high boots; both were made of the same curious leather as the jackets. The boots had an additional surprise; they were designed to give their owners steady footing on even the most precarious of surfaces.

The kids’ armor was alike and yet not to the adults’ armor. In general, it had the same design: undershirt, tunic, jacket, vambraces, gloves, belt, leggings, and boots. But after that, the similarities to the adults’ black-toned armor halted.

Lance’s undershirt and tunic were both a royal blue with white stitching. The jacket and leggings were a scarlet hue, the same hue as the lion patch; the lion patch itself was stitched onto a white backing to distinguish it from the jacket’s color. His vambraces were dual-colored, royal blue with white trim, and had the same stitching and etching as the SRU vambraces, though the stitching was white, like the trim. His gloves were blue, just a bit darker than his vambraces. The belt was gold, stitched with red, although the buckle was the same green, silver-veined leaf that the adults’ belt buckles were. The boots had the darker blue of the gloves, the darker hue setting off the leggings surprisingly well.

Alanna’s outfit was the real surprise. Her undershirt was cream, her tunic a dark violet, almost indigo, and stitched with blue. Her jacket was the same black as the techies’ jackets, as were her leggings. Like Lance, her vambraces were dual-colored, dark violet with black trim and blue stitching. Her gloves were darker, edging into indigo. Her belt, a dark, smokey silver, was stitched with blue like her vambraces and her boots were the same indigo shade as her gloves. Her belt had the same leaf buckle that her brother’s and the SRU belts did. Both teens’ vambraces had one further difference from the techies’ vambraces: they had wand holsters incorporated into them.

Over the armor went, naturally, all of their weapons. The four snipers: Ed, Sam, Jules, and Alanna slid their bows and quivers in place on their backs, the bows secured to the quivers and easily accessible even as they were out of the way. Lance didn’t have a shield, but the other close-quarters fighters – Lou, Wordy, and Spike – slung their shields on their backs, also easily accessible. Everyone save Alanna had their swords on their belts, the sheaths hanging on the left with sword pommels resting at the thigh for quicker drawing. Lance had the easiest time, as his sword had been made for him and the techies’ swords had not.

Silnok offered to keep the group’s duffle bags, save a small bag for carrying Parker’s armor, as their tech weapons couldn’t be taken to the Netherworld anyway. Alanna, the only one without a sword, took the small bag, which was also packed with enough supplies for a week on the road; longer if they cut the rations down.

“We ready?” Ed asked, looking around at his teammates.

Spike threw the team leader a thumbs up; Jules checked her bow one last time before replying, “Ready, Ed.” The rest of the team agreed; everyone was as ready as they could be.

Lance turned to Silnok, offering a slight bow to the goblin. “Account Manager Silnok, thank you for your aid thus far. How do we get to the Isle of the Blessed?”

Silnok smiled back, producing one last object from his desk. “That has already been arranged, Heir Calvin. You may depart at any time.”


	8. Into the Breach

“Another Portkey?” Wordy groaned.

Silnok had the grace to look apologetic at the prospect. “I do apologize, Constable Wordsworth, but time is of the essence. Additionally, the Isle of the Blessed is Unplottable to protect it from being discovered by technologicals or exploited by the…darker…elements of our society. Specially authorized Portkeys are the only way to reach the island.”

Ed grumbled under his breath about the things he – and the others – did for Greg Parker, but was otherwise resigned to Portkey travel by now. Grimly, the techies gathered around the teens, as ready for the trip as they could be. Lance took the Portkey, a large medallion with the symbol of the Triple Goddess on it. “Does this also come back, Account Manager Silnok?”

“Yes, Heir Calvin,” Silnok confirmed. When the whole group had a grip on the Portkey, the goblin added, “The trigger word is ‘Endeavour.’ ” At the trigger word, the Portkey activated, pulling them away.

* * * * *

The Isle of the Blessed slid into focus around them, a crumbling, ancient ruin. The ground where they had landed was still intact, if tattered and overgrown; crumbling stone slabs were visible under the plant growth, but were caked in the dirt and grime that was the inevitable consequence of centuries of neglect. A small altar sat in the center of the clearing, surrounded by weather-worn, battered statues. The entire area gave off an air of abandonment, hinting quietly at destruction and tragedy in the broken walls and pockets of growth in once magnificent stonework.

On one side of the clearing, a set of stone steps led into the once magnificent fortress; the steps were chipped and cracked and the stairwell they rose into was half-crumbled, but the steps themselves were not blocked, not yet. The clearing itself was defined by the altar and the statues, but beyond the clearing was an open expanse of ground that funneled into a stone tunnel. Distantly visible in the tunnel’s depths, an opening led to the island’s edge where an old rotting wooden dock could be seen; a decrepit boat floated next to it, long abandoned.

As the group looked around at the ruins, a man appeared by the altar. He was stooped low, his long hair and tattered beard a dirty white; his clothing consisted of a shabby, old, deep red robe and a ragged pair of boots. A staff was in his hand; it had a bright blue, teardrop shaped gem set in the top. The newcomer leaned on his staff as he stood there, smiling benignly at them. “Welcome, Heirs of Sir Lancelot,” he murmured, his voice soft, but somehow carrying to every member of the group.

Team One’s response was to spin toward the man and reach for sidearms that weren’t there; their hands closed on air and they belatedly redirected to their swords.

“Peace, sir knights; I mean no harm,” the stranger remarked, though amusement danced in the old, wizened eyes. “I am Emrys.”

The teenagers exchanged skeptical looks at his claim, but Lance stepped to the front and gamely replied, “Hail and well met, Merlin Emrys. I am Lancelot of the House of Calvin; this is my sister Alanna.” He offered a brief bow and concluded, “To name our knight friends would delay us further, so I beg your pardon for not introducing them properly. Is there something you require, Lord Emrys?”

Emrys leaned further upon his staff, his smile turning benevolent as he looked down at the teenagers. “I know well your errand, young Heir; ‘tis I who must beg your pardon, for I must delay you a short while. A trifling matter, no more, I assure you.” All of them stiffened in both outrage and alarm, but before any of them could protest, Emrys’s staff swept out and across, leaving a blaze of orange behind it. And with that blaze, the world blurred.

* * * * *

Ed blinked as the world solidified again. He was standing in Commander Holleran’s office, his SRU uniform in place…but there was something wrong. He was holding sergeant’s chevrons in his hand. _What the…?_

“Truly a shame,” Commander Holleran was saying as Ed scrambled to get his bearings, “But with Greg gone, you’re the best candidate for Team One’s new Sergeant, Constable Lane.”

“But,” Ed protested instinctively. _Greg’s not dead; please, he’s not dead._

The pepper-haired man behind the desk looked up, his eyes sad. “I know, Ed, I can hardly believe it myself. Believe me, we’ll always remember him, but it’s time to move on. Will you take the promotion?”

Ed was confused and bewildered, but his heart screamed protest, his instincts howling even louder that, whatever this was, it _had_ to be a trap. He looked down at the chevrons and shook his head. “No, sir. Maybe someday I’ll be ready to step into Greg’s shoes, but not today.” Ed’s eyes flashed defiance. “And he’s not dead.”

The world turned yellow, with a defiant lion’s roar at the edge of hearing.

* * * * *

Sam looked around at the room he’d found himself in. Familiar, unchanging, just like both of his parents. He sucked in a breath as he realized his mother and father were standing right next to him and he himself was right in front of an unexpected new addition to the table top. A picture frame, with a good friend and mentor smiling gently at him.

“I’m sorry, son,” his father said, Sam’s heart clenching in fear and shock, “I know you admired him.”

A tear threatened to fall from suddenly full eyes. “D-did we fail?” Sam managed.

His mother wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. “No, Sam; you did everything you could, it’s not your fault.”

But it felt wrong; his parent’s reactions were different…not at all what they should have been. _These_ were the parents he _longed_ for, but knew, deep down, that he could never have, because, regardless of how much _he_ wanted them to change, _they_ had to be the ones to actually change…and they never would… He pulled away from his mother’s arms, picking the picture up and running a hand over Boss’s image. _Family by choice…_ He gripped the picture harder, letting the frame dig into his hand.

“Maybe someday you two will understand why I made the choices I did,” he whispered, regret for the parents he could never have slicing at him, “But even if you never do, I have a family…one that I chose; that chose me in return.”

The world turned silver and the lion’s roar he heard was faint, grieving even more than Sam for the parents he _should_ have had.

* * * * *

Wordy was standing in the briefing room, a heavy weight hanging over the entire room; as he glanced around, a shudder worked its way up his back. Ed was in Sarge’s place, with Sarge’s chevrons on his uniform. The rest of the team was around the table, quiet, sorrowful. _No, no, no…this can’t be real. It_ can’t _._

“As of this morning, Commander Holleran promoted me to Sergeant,” Ed announced, “So we need a new team leader.”

“Wordy,” Sam proposed, to Wordy’s shock. _What? Me as team leader? No_ way _._

“Okay, we have one vote for Wordy,” Ed acknowledged, “Anyone else?”

Spike looked up, his devastation so clear that Wordy involuntarily flinched. “Give it to Wordy; I sure don’t want it.” _C’mon, guys, don’t do this to me…I don’t_ want _to be team leader. Not for a long time and for sure not like this._

“Seconded,” Jules agreed. Lou just nodded.

Ed turned toward the increasingly confused and angry Wordy. “Wordy? Me as Sergeant, you as team leader; you good with that?”

Wordy shook his head furiously. “No way, Ed; we gotta save Sarge.”

“We tried,” Spike grated out, sounding heartbroken. “We tried, Wordy.”

With sheer stubborn refusal, Wordy snapped, “Give up if you want, but I’m _not_.”

He turned to storm out of the room and the world turned blue; the lion roar he heard, ever so faintly, held just as much refusal as his heart.

* * * * *

Lou found himself standing opposite a clearly agitated subject, saying something he couldn’t quite catch and smiling as the subject put her weapon down and released her hostage. “Okay, we’re clear,” he called, but it felt as if he was following someone else’s script, in the middle of a performance he hadn’t volunteered for.

Compounding the sense of surreality, his team’s enthusiasm seemed forced, wrong, the praise hollow in his ears. “Just as good as the Boss,” Spike called.

“No one’s as good as Sarge,” Lou retorted without thinking.

Silence draped the comm; Lou blinked in surprise. _What’s going on?_ Then, tentatively, Sam asked, “Lou, you feeling okay? Boss was good, sure, but you’re even better.”

Lou froze. So often he seconded the Boss or was assigned to go less-lethal… Sometimes he wondered if that was all his team would ever let him be, that and Spike’s bomb tech backup. To be more…to be the negotiator… But not like this, _never_ like this. _We’re gonna get him back, I know it._

“Maybe someday, guys, but I’ve got a lot to learn,” he replied, his voice calm and steady, “Better if I learn it from the best, huh?”

The world turned bronze and Lou’s ears picked up the distant sound of a lion roaring, the roar steady, firm, and confident.

* * * * *

She was standing at the altar, her wedding dress a brilliant white, her soon-to-be husband standing across from her. Somehow she knew it was time for the vows, time for the beginning of her new life. Jules looked over at her husband’s best man and groomsmen; her smile faded, someone was missing. She shifted back, looking for the missing man, but he wasn’t behind her either. _Where is he?_

“Jules, honey, stop,” Sam whispered. _How does he know what I’m doing?_ “He’s not here…he, he’s gone, remember?”

No, she didn’t remember and she spun back towards Sam, a furious, cutting remark on her tongue when she finally spotted him…or rather his picture, hung in a place of honor on the church wall.

“No,” she heard herself say, her heart shrieking denial. “No, Sam, not like this.”

He pulled her close, hugging her, but it felt wrong; this wasn’t the Sam she knew and secretly still loved. “He’d want this for us, Jules.”

She pushed him back, her heart, her instincts telling her what to do. “I’m not having my wedding day without him. Not now, not _ever_.”

The world turned pink and the lion roaring in her ears was just as determined as her soul.

* * * * *

He was in his parent’s house, standing just inside the door to the kitchen where his Mamá was making dinner…his favorite dish. His Papá was at the table, but instead of looking away from his son and shunning Spike, as he so often did these days, his eyes were on his son and so gentle that Spike quailed for a moment. _What happened? Who died?_

**“I am sorry, Michelangelo,”** his Papá murmured. **“He was a good man, your boss.”**

_No…no…anything but this…anything but this…_

**“We will come with you to the funeral,”** Mamá promised, placing the hot dish on the table. **“And have a Mass said for him on Sunday.”**

Spike staggered back into the doorway, heart and mind racing. But one thing he knew for sure, one thing he clung to with all his might…losing his boss would make his parents hate his job even _more_ , not less.

**“My Boss isn’t dead,”** he spat, **“And we’re getting him back.”**

He turned to run out of the room and the world turned emerald; the lion’s roar in the background somehow echoing his rock-solid belief that they were going to _win_.

* * * * *

“What did you _do_ to them?” Lance snarled, sword in his right hand, wand in his left; both weapons were twirled up and at the ready.

Beside him, Alanna’s bow was aimed; an arrow nocked, the string pulled back. “Release them,” she hissed.

Six pulses of light flared behind them; the two turned to look. All six adults staggered, coming back to themselves with near identical jolts. When the teenagers whirled back toward the altar, ‘Emrys’ was gone.

“Okay, anyone else feel like we just came _way_ too close to failing?” Jules panted, shaken badly by her vision and unable to keep from shivering.

“Right there with you,” Wordy groaned, folding over and panting hard for breath. “Ed, _please_ tell me you didn’t find yourself in the briefing room,” he managed to rasp out.

“No, Holleran’s office,” Ed replied; though he _looked_ steady, he was just as unnerved as his best friend. “Let me guess…” he drawled, “I was Sergeant, trying to make you team leader.”

“I’m not even going to _ask_ how you knew that,” Wordy decided, though he was pretty sure he _did_ know. “Can we get this spell thing over with?”

“Seconded,” Lou put in from his own hunched over position as he pushed himself upright again. Sam and Spike were still too shaken to really speak, but they tossed the kids two shaky thumbs up; like the rest of their team, they wanted this over and done with as soon as possible.

Lance considered the altar, making a moue of distaste; to use it felt _wrong_ , as if the altar would do naught but poison and twist their efforts to get their uncle back. Instead of gathering around the symbol of – and monument to – the Old Religion, he whispered to Alanna and the two circled the adults in the large grassy area, past the altar and its surrounding statues.

“Make sure you stay in the circle once we start,” Lance instructed, looking the adults over with badly hidden worry – they didn’t need to lose anyone trying to save their uncle. “And once we’re in, we’ve _got_ to stay together; no lone wolf heroics, got it?”

Now that they were at the point of no return, tension ratcheted up; Team One checked their gear for something last minute to do – anything to avoid thinking about going into the Netherworld, risking _everything_ to get their Sergeant back.

Spike recovered his wit enough to quip, “Three cheers for the Fellowship of the Lion,” in an attempt to break the mounting tension.

It worked; groans rose from his teammates and Lou retorted, “What is this? Lord of the Rings?”

“Better not be,” Ed growled, glaring around at the entire group, “I don’t plan on losing anyone.”

“Talon Team,” Sam suggested with a sly smirk, doing his part to break the mood around them. The kids booed him down.

“That’s just us,” Alanna declared. “Come up with something that has all of you in it too.” Her brother had a thoughtful look, as if he had an idea, but didn’t want to propose it yet.

“What about Lion Fellowship?” Jules suggested. “Short, sweet, and it does include all of us, right?”

Team One looked her, then at each other, considering. Then Lance spoke up again, his voice tentative. “Once upon a time, our family called Narnia home; it’s where our magic comes from, actually. Emrys’s spell essentially calls all of you guys knights. What about Narnian Knights?”

Alanna’s eyes lit. “Both sides…Narnian magic and technological knights who keep the peace.” She grinned at her brother and teased, “Looks like you had a good idea, brother mine…for once.”

Lance ignored her jibe; the adults considered the idea, trading looks and silent communication. Ed finally gave the verdict. “I think it works; now let’s get this done.” No more stalling; they were still on one heck of a deadline.

Both teenagers nodded sharply. They stood inside the Team One circle, facing each other. In a ringing voice, Alanna started the incantation. _“Heortscraef léoa onhlíde séo faereld.”_

Light began to glow in the center of the circle; a glitter of a path twisting and shining around the group. Lance picked up the spell. _“Ferthgrim rídereas nerung paet mearcpaeth.”_

The glitter firmed, the Knights now encircled by a road that defied vision; trying to look at it only made you feel unsettled, off balanced, and dazed. And yet, there was a protective glow from the center of the circle as well: shielding them from the worst of the danger, showing the way to go. Without skipping a beat, the Narnians looked at each other and chanted the last stanza together, Alanna’s contralto rising and falling with her brother’s baritone. _“Gaderung gerihtrecath ofhendene sáwol hámsíth._ **(1)** _”_

Light blazed from the circle’s center: red, green, blue, and every color in between. A portal yawned open; the path wrapped around them; a Lion’s roar rang in their ears. They couldn’t have moved if they’d wanted to. Power flexed in the clearing, the echo of the Old Religion; Wild Magic flared defiance of the ancient laws and ways, refusing to surrender even a single life to the Old Religion’s edict of a Life for a Life. In the background, the Deep Magic’s whisper of faith, hope, and love went almost unnoticed, save for the fact that the whisper lasted long after the spell was done.

When the light finally faded, the Narnian Knights were gone. A figure stepped out from the stones of the isle, his blue eyes sad, his staff in hand, his black hair short. He looked like a young man and he wore a red neckerchief that was old and faded with age above a blue sorcerer's cloak, a plain black shirt, and weathered leather pants. “This above all: to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man,” the man quoted softly. He considered the isle a moment longer, then a wind whipped around him and he was gone.

 

[1] From Old English, the spell is “Heart of Lion open the way; Spirit of Knights guard the path; together guide lost soul home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my friends Phrag and Silver for being willing to help me brainstorm the Team One plus kids group name. All the suggested names came either from them or me…without their help, I probably would have gone for a way too fancy name…it’s the geek in me.


	9. Demons and Mazes

In the deserted, desolate landscape, the only sound came from wind that slipped and danced around the rocks and craggy stone formations. Nothing grew here; not even the hardiest of plants could have survived in what little soil there was and even had such been planted, it would have died swiftly in the acidic, chaos magic-ridden ground. The ground was parched and dry; any water dropped on it would vanish in an instant, never to be reclaimed.

In the distance, the howl of a terror dog echoed; other demonic denizens scattered or ignored the howl, according to their abilities and natural dispositions. Nothing lived here, nothing moved. There wasn’t even any tumbleweed to blow across the rocky plains. The merciless sun overhead heated the land, leaving naught but a wasteland and, somehow, even the shadows cast by the rocky terrain offered no relief from the sun’s ruthless, uncaring rays.

Lightning jabbed down from a cloudless sky, striking the center of a small clearing in the rocky area. Thunder boomed; power crackled in the aftermath. At the point where the lightning struck, light exploded outwards in a furious roar. Debris flew outwards, flung by the sheer force of magic flaring from the lightning strike. Eight figures appeared out of the light, struggling to keep their feet as the ground flexed in response to the influx of power and magic. Some managed, by dint of luck, sheer willpower, and perhaps a touch of magic, to stay on their feet. The rest ended up in a heap on the ground and had to pick themselves up, grumbling a little as they did so.

Two of their number were immediately on the alert, their magic unbound and unleashed to track any possible threats. They had yet to draw their weapons or wands, but such was near at hand, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. The rest of their number, while unnerved by their surroundings, took the time to get reorganized and ready to go, choosing care and caution over reckless and unheeding haste. Once they were ready, they closed in around the two youngest of the group, determined to keep the teenagers as safe as possible in this alien land.

Ed drew a breath, surveying the area they’d landed in and grimacing at the rather unfortunate fact that there was really only one way to go. “One way out,” he announced flatly, “It’s screaming trap to me.”

“Likely so,” Lance agreed, managing to wriggle far enough out of the protective circle to see the terrain. “I suspect whoever was at the Isle wasn’t Emrys at all, but rather an…entity meant to keep us from reaching the Netherworld. There might be other entities here. And Mindy _did_ say that the Netherworld’s environment is controlled by the demons who live here; _they_ sure don’t want us to succeed.”

“Awful lot of work to keep hold of one soul,” Wordy observed, scowling.

Alanna shook her head, hair flying. “No, Uncle Wordy, it’s really not. Think _Screwtape Letters_ , demons _want_ to keep souls; they’ll do anything in their power to keep us out and Uncle Greg in. More than that, they’d _love_ it if they could get a hold of _our_ souls, too, so we _have_ to be careful.”

It wasn’t a comforting thought, but just standing there wasn’t going to get their Sergeant back, so the Knights, after nudging the two kids back into the center of the group, started down the path.

* * * * *

The problem with Team One going first down the path was that none of them had the training to _use_ the swords and bows they’d been given. So when a group of harpies descended on the Narnian Knights roughly an hour into their trek, the result was very nearly a rout…on Team One’s side. Instinctively, they went for sidearms that weren’t there, slowing their reaction time. Mercifully, none of the swords or bows got caught or snagged as they were being pulled, but the snipers fumbled a bit as they tried to snatch their arrows out of the quivers and the swordsmen all forgot to grab their shields.

Harpies are twisted creatures of dark magic, a fact reflected in their appearance. With large, bat-like wings, long, bald heads, and grasping claws they were nothing like the ancient Greek myths of half-bird, half-woman creatures. Their teeth were sharp and pointed, their skin a pinkish hue, and their bones small, hollow, and delicate. Therein lay their weakness.

“ _Gescildan!_ ” Lance yelled, left hand extended, palm up. The swooping harpies, cackling and extending their claws in anticipation of fresh meat, screeched their scorn – and promptly bounced off a golden shield.

Alanna was ready when they pulled up, howling insults at the Knights; a _thwang_ and an arrow sprouting out of the lead harpy’s chest marked the first kill of the day. Her eyes gleamed with her magic as she pulled another arrow and buried it in the next harpy.

Her brother pushed his way through the disorganized circle, drawing his sword as he went. One harpy managed to get past the shield and discovered its mistake as Lance took it down with extreme prejudice, slashing through his opponent and moving onto the next harpy without missing a beat.

Another aerial harpy fell to Alanna’s arrows as Jules finally got her first arrow nocked and aimed at a harpy trying to attack from behind; it went down with an indignant wail. Spike, spying Lou’s shield, nearly facepalmed before yanking his own shield off his back and diving for a grounded harpy that snuck through the still glowing magical shield. He blocked the harpy’s swipe at him and ran it through. One of the harpies still aloft let out a shrill, shrieking cry; the remaining harpies fled.

Lance twirled his sword, a feral grin on his face. A quick burst of his magic and the blade was clean again. Alanna had a matching grin on her face as she stalked to the fallen harpies and yanked her arrows free. Jules grimaced, but copied the young witch with her own harpy; they couldn’t afford to leave any usable ‘ammo’ behind. Spike looked down at his sword, scowling; how was he supposed to _clean_ a _sword_? Before he could say anything, Lance came over, wand in hand. “ _Scourgify_ **(2)**,” the young wizard ordered softly. The blackish blood on the sword vanished as if it had never been.

“Well that was fun,” Wordy remarked, sarcasm dripping. He’d almost dropped his sword when the harpies made their first dive bomb run and never had managed to engage any of the things. Nor did he have any desire to; it was one thing to tangle with human opponents, but he’d never signed up to fight actual, honest-to-goodness _demons_.

“Maybe we should go first,” Lance suggested, glancing back at the other Knights. “We have been training for a couple years.” Alanna nodded her agreement.

As illogical as it was, Ed didn’t _want_ to let the kids go first; it was _Team One’s_ job to protect the teens, not the other way around. Besides, he could just imagine Greg’s response if one of the kids got hurt trying to save him. So he shook his head and shooed the pair back in the center of the group, ignoring Sam’s arched brow at the maneuver. They could handle this, no problem.

* * * * *

Okay, maybe they couldn’t handle it, Ed realized as he tracked and loosed his first arrow of the day at a wolf-man hybrid about to attack Lou. At least _this_ time all three melee fighters had remembered their shields and both he and Sam had managed to get arrows on their bows; Jules was plugging away at a wrinkled bird-like creature, interrupting its attempts to cast a spell and finally putting it down with an arrow through its chest. Lance was a whirlwind as he fought; casting Old Magic spells with his left hand while he held off something that looked part pig, part goblin, and part lizard with his sword.

Wordy was shielding ‘Lanna from another wolf-man while she handled a trio of harpies who were trying to capitalize on the Knights’ distraction. He wasn’t taking the wolf-man down, but the creature was on the defensive as the broad-shouldered cop shoved it backwards, swinging his sword wildly at the demon in an enthusiastic imitation of just about every medieval movie he’d ever seen. The pig-goblin went flying as Lance got himself under his sword and shoved his opponent up and away; it hit a wall and collapsed, never to rise again. An instant later, the teen’s wand dropped into his left hand as he whirled toward Spike.

Ed followed his gaze and scrambled to bring his bow to bear; Spike was pinned between a pig-goblin and a bird, shield absorbing the blows both rained down on him. His sword was nowhere to be seen. Ed shot the bird through its eye, dropping it while Lance bellowed a Reductor curse at the other one.

“R-retreat!” a harpy called, hovering out of range. “Let the mistress handle them.” The fell beasts obeyed, falling back and running to get out of range. The four snipers took down two of the fleeing creatures: a wolf-man and a bird.

This time, Team One sported a fair number of cuts and bruises from the fight. Nothing serious, thanks once again to the teens, but if they kept getting attacked like this… Ed shook the speculation away and took stock of his remaining arrows and his team. He’d missed a couple times, but Alanna was already scampering around retrieving as many arrows as she could, so he figured he’d get most of them back.

Jules seemed to have the best grasp on the bows after Alanna; she hadn’t missed at all once she’d gotten into the groove. Spike was scooping up his sword from where it had fallen, looking rather embarrassed; Lou clapped him on the shoulder and murmured something to the bomb tech. Wordy’s sword was being cleaned by Lance, who’d already cleaned his own and Lou’s.

“Status,” Ed rapped out.

“No harm,” Sam and Jules all but chorused.

Spike grimaced. “Got a few cuts, nothing bad.”

“Same here,” Lou agreed. Beyond him, Wordy simply offered a thumbs up.

Amused, Lance asked, “Now can we go first?”

With a deep, reluctant sigh, Ed gestured to the path with a little flourish. Yes, they could go first; the team leader knew when he was out of his depth and beat. Fortunately, neither teen rubbed it in; Lance and Alanna simply took the lead, the rest of the Knights closing ranks behind them. Less than a hundred yards past the fight, they found the first fork in the road.

Lance stepped forward, examining both paths with his eyes and magic. No pitfalls along either one, at least not within his magic’s considerable range. Which meant this was a pitfall of a different kind. The teen let his wand drop into his hand, deciding to start simple and work his way up. He let the wand sit on his palm and whispered, “ _Point Me, Greg Parker_.” The wand spun on his palm, the speed of it warm against his glove. For a moment, he wondered if it would work, if the distance was too far, but then the wand slowed and, to the teen’s surprise, pointed straight down the left fork. With a nod to himself, he slipped the wand back into its holster and started down the left fork, his sister and his team following.

* * * * *

The maze twisted and turned, doubling back on itself and driving the Narnian Knights up the cliff walls in frustration. The terrain rose and fell, forcing them to climb up to one fork, only to almost tumble down to the next fork. More than once, Wordy and Ed insisted on going down first in case another member of the team fell. Their boots, designed to cling to even the most precarious surface, were worth their weight in gold.

The Knights stopped for lunch when their stomachs started to snarl at them, but the sun hung in the sky, never falling, never rising. Their watches had stopped as soon as they made the transition, so the hours drifted by, noted mostly by hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. At each fork, the Point Me spell gave them the way to go, drawing a bit of spirited speculation about how magic worked in the Netherworld as opposed to the real world. To their mixed relief and suspicion, they were not attacked again.

Had they been able to see through the cliff walls, they might have been more wary; the fell creatures had not left them alone at all and shadowed the group quietly from a distance. Their mistress’ orders were clear; leave the humans to _her_ tender mercies and what _she_ didn’t get, Tolay certainly would.

* * * * *

Near the end of the afternoon, at least as far as they could tell, they reached a rough archway; the first sign of anything halfway civilized in the desolate wasteland. A woman was leaning against the archway, playing with a bracelet on her wrist. Black hair tumbled to her shoulders and her face was narrow, almost elven. When she looked up at them, pale gray eyes glittered in her even paler face. Her hair was twisted, tangled, and nearly wild; she wore a black dress that was just as tattered and wild.

With a predator’s grace, she shifted upright and turned to face them, her eyes gleaming with madness and dark humor. “Well, well, well. What have we here? Six knights and their pet sorcerers.”

The entire group stiffened at the insult; she tossed her head, smirking triumphantly at the Knights. “I smell the blood of that oh-so- _noble_ Knight, Lancelot; now he was a _most_ useful tool. So easy to use dear Gwen’s affection for him to keep her away from Arthur…such a pity it didn’t work for long.” She didn’t wait for any comment or protest, switching topics with a breezy air. “I can guess who you’re here for: that fool Parker.”

Growls of anger and protest interrupted her and Alanna burst out, “Uncle Greg is worth ten of you!”

The woman smirked again. “Worth more than me? A peasant against Morgana Le Fay?” The teens gasped at her claim; her smirk turned positively evil and her eyes filmed gold, “Let’s find out, shall we?”

The gold in her eyes intensified and she screamed, _“Áleofaath hwaet náwa waes, hwaet cúden gelae gebeón._ **(3)** _”_

 

[2] ‘to make clean’

[3] From Old English, the spell is “Live what never was, what could have been.”


	10. What Never Was

“It’s not fair,” was the first thing Alanna heard, ringing in a child’s falsetto, “I want to go to Hogwarts.”

She blinked, the world coming into focus again as a woman sighed and replied, “Next year, Lily. None of your siblings went until they were eleven either.”

A child with hair as red as Alanna’s scowled and looked up at her, eyes as wide as they could go. “Let me come with you, Alanna,” she pleaded.

For a moment, she was confused, puzzled by her surroundings; then everything seemed to slide into place again. “Sorry Lily,” she told the younger redhead, “Mum’s right; none of us went until we were eleven.” As Lily’s brown eyes filled with tears of disappointment, Alanna added, “Don’t worry, you’ll get there. And once you do, you’ll make Gryffindor for sure!”

Even so, Lily pouted as their father came in, his green eyes dancing at all of them. “Ready to go?” he asked his Hogwarts age children.

“Yes, sir,” Lance replied from behind the veteran Auror. Alanna had decided to go along with their new guardians’ request to call them ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad,’ but Lance stubbornly refused to, a decision he’d made when their new father ordered them to stop using their family magic.

_“How much else does he expect us to give up, Alanna?” Lance had demanded that night, angry betrayal glittering in his eyes. “We can’t change what we are, sis.”_

_“Maybe I_ want _to change what I am,” Alanna retorted, hands on hips. “The family magic didn’t save them, did it? Why not give it up?”_

_“Because it’s our heritage!” Lance burst out. “It’s all we have left!”_

_“No, Lancelot. It’s all_ you _have left,” Alanna retorted before flouncing out of her brother’s new room. The siblings hadn’t spoken to each other since._

Dad sighed, turning to his brunet son. “How many times, Lancelot?” he scolded lightly.

Lance just shrugged; Alanna sighed as well. “I’m ready,” she called, drawing attention away from her brother, though he pretended not to notice.

Their father’s smile instantly returned and he ruffled her hair affectionately. “I remember when I was your age, about to get my first wand. It’s a day you’ll always remember.”

She blinked, confused. She already had her wand…didn’t she? And why did her brother look so upset? _‘How much else does he expect us to give up…’_ A feeling of something being very wrong crawled up her spine, dissipating her anticipation for the trip to Diagon Alley.

* * * * *

She was standing on the catwalk above the mall, facing Tasha Redford’s back as the girl stood on the edge, crying. Jules was about to call out to the girl when a voice came over her comm, harsh and, surprisingly, unfamiliar. “Get that girl off that ledge, Jules.”

“C-copy,” she acknowledged her Sergeant crisply. “Tasha,” she called, “I’m going to step closer so you can hear me better.” As she stepped forward, she added, “I’m stepping closer.”

She glanced back at her teammate, Josiah, but he merely hiked an eyebrow at her and gestured for her to get on with it; after an instant, the look in his eyes turned mocking and it was clear he had no intention of offering either help or advice. A frown creased her face; she might be the primary negotiator, but backup was always nice. And, just to rub it in and make it worse, her Sergeant came back on the comm, impatiently snapping, “You gonna get that girl off the ledge or not?”

A grumble came from someone else. “Some lead negotiator _she_ is.”

Jules clenched her fists at the casual insult, but sadly she was very used to it by now. Add one girl to the old boys club and witness some of the most immature behavior known to man; what she wouldn’t give for one _ounce_ of _real_ respect. If nothing else, she would’ve thought her team would at _least_ respect negotiation a heck of a lot more than they actually did; nine times out of ten, they went hard tactical or lethal, without talking at all.

With an iron effort Jules dismissed her well-worn train of thought and took a steadying breath before she kept talking to Tasha, “Good. So, thanks for not jumping. Are you thinking you might?”

She might as well stop wishing for what never could be; a team that accepted her and supported her for who _she_ was and what her talents were. A team that cared more about saving lives than racking up another takedown, like notches on a belt. But a trickle of something niggled at her heart, a feeling that something about this whole scenario was wrong, dead wrong, and she needed to figure out _what_ before it was too late.

* * * * *

He was on a cliff ledge, hidden from view and aiming through his scope at his unit’s latest target. Without thinking, he said, “I have the solution,” then blinked in surprise at himself. That wasn’t the right phrase…was it?

Matt’s voice came over the radio, wry amusement marking every word. “Wow, Braddock, where’d you get _that_ line from?” Without waiting for a response, Matt quipped, “Never mind, you’re all clear, now let’s blow this thing and go home.”

Something about Matt’s voice made a part of him keen in grief, as if Matt was dead…but that was impossible, he was on the radio. For a moment, the world felt completely off kilter, twisting around him. Sam shook himself, shivering at the sudden chill up his back. Wrong, the world felt _wrong_.

Then the moment passed; he got back to business and looked through his scope again. His gut spasmed, instincts howling warning; he was aiming at Brian Wilkins. _Wait, what? How do I know who that guy is?_ “What the? Matt, are we sure this is the right guy?” he demanded, deciding to figure out what the heck was going on later. But the chill up his back intensified; wrong, something was wrong, and if he didn’t figure out _what_ , he was going to _regret_ it.

There was a pause, then, “Yeah, it’s the right guy. Why?”

_Oh, this is_ so _not good._ “Because he’s tied to a pole about two meters away from one of our handlers.”

* * * * *

Wordy blinked and it felt like the ground underneath him heaved; then he realized he was just on a treadmill in the workout room. A careful look behind him revealed Ed on an exercise bike, blinking and looking just as bewildered as Wordy felt. Fortunately, the bewilderment only lasted a second; of course, once it faded he remembered the current situation they were in. Danny Rangford and all the alcohol he kept guzzling – on duty and off. Too bad Ed hadn’t snagged the treadmill next to Wordy; they could have planned their latest gambit without anyone noticing. Before either he or Ed could switch machines, Danny poked his head into the workout room. His eyes were watery and bloodshot…as usual.

“Wrap it up, boys,” Danny called. “We need to plan this Saturday’s get-together at my place.”

The other men flowed out of the workout room, enthusiastically trading notes on the upcoming party; Wordy deliberately lagged and noted Ed doing the same. Quiet, keeping his voice low, Wordy asked Ed, “Any ideas?”

Ed shook his head, keeping his own voice down. “We’ve already tried everything _I_ can think of…I hate to say it, but we’ve only got one card left.”

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Wordy said, “Holleran.” When Ed nodded, he hissed, “Neither one of us is team leader, will Holleran even listen?”

Ed shrugged. “No way to know, but we’d better hope so.”

They strolled into the briefing room, ignoring the slightly irritated look Danny gave them for delaying the discussion. “Okay, boys,” Danny began, pointedly turning away from his two more…conscientious…team members, “I’ve got the beer, but if any of you want to bring your own, I won’t object.” Laughter ran around the room and only the two ‘latecomers’ didn’t laugh. Instead they traded somber looks and even more somber agreement on their course of action.

If only they were on a team with a Sergeant who wasn’t a lush on the job…one who took his subordinates seriously when they thought he had an issue or a problem. Or, even better, a Sergeant who respected his team regardless of whether they agreed with him all the time or not. _Sure would be nice,_ Wordy thought, only to stop and pause…some part of him was insisting that they _did_ have a Sergeant like that.

* * * * *

The ex-cop’s feet hurt; he’d been walking for hours trying to find a new job. Trouble was, after washing out of the SRU, nothing really seemed to be opening up. Spike sighed as he kept walking, shoulders slumped with disappointment. His parents were happy that he wasn’t a cop anymore, but he doubted they’d _stay_ happy if he couldn’t find work soon.

He felt a tingle up his back, a sense that something wasn’t quite right; of _course_ something wasn’t right, he thought with a scowl. He’d gotten kicked out of a job he loved and was good at. His dream job and he’d failed miserably.

_What went wrong?_ he wondered for what seemed like the umpteenth time, casting his gaze around. He’d worked hard to get into the SRU, even harder to stay there, but it seemed like no one really wanted the wunderkind who wasn’t quite a typical SRU cop. None of the Sergeants seemed to know what to do with the quiet, slightly shy bomb tech and he’d been shuffled from team to team before finally getting the boot.

Shaking the pointless thoughts off, the ex-cop looked up at the hotel he’d found himself in front of. The Royal York and it had some sort of conference going on. Curious, Spike wandered in, ignoring the SRU cops on the door; once he was past, he realized he’d worked with them and felt rather grateful they hadn’t noticed him.

He probably couldn’t get into whatever conference was going on, but maybe he could find a place to sit down and think for a few minutes. He wandered out of the lobby, hardly noticing where his feet were taking him. _My kingdom for a second chance,_ he thought morosely, _Someone who’ll give me a place to fit in._ In his distraction, he never realized he’d trekked into the employees only area – close to a freight elevator that held a single occupant.

* * * * *

Lou looked around, taking in his patrol car, the old neighborhood, the worn streets, the tightness of a patrol uniform that had never quite fit right, and frowned to himself. Same old patrol route, same old streets, same old thing, day in and day out. Nothing happened, nothing ever changed; the most exciting thing that ever happened was the corner shop owner yelling and chasing the local teenagers out of his store for shoplifting. Lou liked being a cop, but sometimes…ugh…would it be so bad to have something _new_ to do, a challenge to meet?

He finished his lunch, tossing it into the nearby trash barrel, and then climbed back into his trusty patrol car, stifling a sense of utter boredom. He started the car and pulled out, feeling a tug in his mind – a sense that something was off, something was wrong with the world around him. Before he could figure out what felt so wrong, his radio crackled. “All available units to First York Plaza.”

He snatched up the radio, barking out a crisp, “Copy that.” He floored the accelerator, snapped on the lights and siren. For an instant, the car around him shifted into a black truck and his patrol uniform blurred into an SRU uniform, then the illusion faded. But that instant was all it took for him to realize that his feeling of something wrong – was dead on right.

* * * * *

Morgana Le Fay sneered as she stood next to a cell with a very special occupant. The man, no…ghost, who stood inside the cell glared right back at her. “No one is coming for you,” the witch gloated. “You will die, unmourned and alone.”

“They’ll come,” the ghost replied, “My team won’t give up on me.” He looked pale and drawn, his resilience worn down to a nub and what clothes he still possessed were tattered rags. His refusal to give up and his stubborn will were the only reasons he was still on his feet, pitiful and yet it had been enough…the longer it took to break Parker’s spirit, the longer she and Tolay were denied their ultimate goal.

Morgana smiled nastily, examining the crystal globe in her hand and affecting an air of unconcern. “Perhaps,” she granted, gazing into the crystalline depths. After a beat, she concluded, “ _If_ they remember who they are.”

“What did you do to them?” the ghost spat, throwing himself at the rocky bars. “If you’ve hurt them…” Rage shone in brown eyes; his emotions were much rawer and closer to the surface than usual, a side effect of his current state.

The witch laughed, throwing her head back as she chortled. “Nothing so uncouth; that takes all the fun out of it.” She smirked at the ghost, triumph in every word, every line of her face. “No, just a little spell, a trifle really. But then,” her smirk grew wider, “Even a small spell is more than your beloved team can fight against.”

Even as she gloated and sneered, her globe gave a small thrum and her head snapped down to look in it; she scowled heavily without thinking. _Curses…they may pull this off after all… Time to arrange a few final details._ Without a word to the captive, she vanished in a swirl of wind and magic. Her captive stared at where she had been, shoulders slumped as his hope drained away. It was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all enjoying the ride so far. In a RL status update, I will be starting a new job Monday August 14th, 2017. While I will do my dirty darnedest to keep to my current schedule of updating each Tuesday and Friday, this may change due to the new job. Or I may end up posting much later in the day. Either way, all things change, but I solemnly swear (that I am up to no good) that I will keep on a regular update schedule. It just may change a bit from what ya'll are used to from me.
> 
> Hope you're enjoying and since you took the time to read my little author note, please take a bit more time and tell me whatcha think so far!


	11. Shattering the Trap

Sam slipped and skidded down the slope, intent on the open field ahead of him. He hated this, hated turning on his own unit, but he wasn’t going to shoot an innocent man. The sniper didn’t know _how_ he knew that, but he did; just like he knew shooting Brian Wilkins would be the worst mistake of his life.

Now he had to reach Brian before his own unit did; Sam pushed himself even faster, finally throwing himself into a barely controlled roll down the rocky slope. Though he picked up a number of cuts and bruises from his stunt, the roll allowed the young sniper to reach the field roughly half a minute before his team did. Sam pushed himself upright and bolted for the two men on the other side of the small field, running as fast as he could.

As he got close, his unit’s main handler spotted him coming. “Braddock?” the wizard demanded, shocked. “What in Merlin’s name are you _doing_?” Even as he spoke, he drew his wand; Sam dove under a red bolt from the wand, rolling back to his feet and dashing to Wilkins.

“Saving a good man’s life,” the blond snarled, positioning himself between his handler and the bound wizard; his knife flew, cutting Wilkins loose.

“Braddock, stop!” Matt yelled, his yell coming at the same moment as Sam was hit by a spell. The sniper was slammed into the pole, dazing him, but, determined to give Wilkins a fighting chance, he kept sawing at the ropes.

They gave with a _snap_ ; Wilkins yanked himself free an instant later. A red Stunner flashed at the treacherous handler; Wilkins turned and threw up a shield between himself and the advancing soldiers. “Lose something?” the Auror asked Sam casually, effortlessly holding the magical shield as he regarded the sniper who’d saved his life.

“Huh?”

Brian’s smile was small and sad. “I suppose there’s a reason Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon, used to call Morgana Le Fay the Witch.” He shook his head. “You’ll remember…when you do, tell Greg I don’t regret it.”

Silver light surrounded the sniper, then he was gone.

* * * * *

Lou pulled up beside several other patrol cars and bolted out of the car almost before he put it into park. A man was holding a woman hostage in the center of the square; a scene that gave Lou an eerie sense of déjà vu. He shook the sense away and focused on where he could help.

He found himself on crowd control right near one of the SRU cops, keeping the rubber-necking bystanders at a safe distance. A raven-haired man pushed his way through the crowd, wailing in another language at the man in the center of the square. As soon as he was clear of the crowd, he tried to race towards the man; Lou’s sense of déjà vu took a sharp jog upwards. The SRU cop caught the young man before he could run past, holding him back and talking to him.

Lou discretely shifted position, his instincts screaming louder than the agitated hostage-taker yelling in outrage that his son was being held back. For several moments, things hung in the balance, but the hostage-taker settled down as the SRU cop got the would-be runner to start negotiating.

Lou sucked in a breath as he watched, praying the runner could talk his father down; the SRU negotiator was having even more trouble with the language barrier than…than…than who? He couldn’t remember, but it felt important. Just like it felt like he should be one of those SRU cops, not a mere patrol cop.

Instinct had him lunging at the runner a split second after the runner bolted away from the SRU cop. Patrol cop and runner collided, Lou taking the young man down _hard_. Behind them, the hostage-taker fell, a bullet through his skull. The woman he’d nearly killed stumbled away, into the arms of the SRU cops hurrying forward.

“Tata,” the runner whimpered. “Tata.”

“Do me a favor,” Lou muttered under his breath, without thinking, “Don’t be coming back with a rifle of your own a couple months from now.”

He had no idea where _that_ had come from, but it felt right, if futile. Petar looked up at Lou, his eyes going blank and dead. “It would have been worse without him, you know,” the dead man remarked flatly, “I would have killed more if your Sergeant hadn’t been there.”

“My…” Memory surfaced, Lou’s grip tightened. Beneath him, Petar vanished; Lou’s vision was overlaid with bronze.

* * * * *

Ed sighed quietly; he’d never thought he’d be in this position: turning in his own mentor for drinking. Wordy gave him a sympathetic look and knocked on Commander Holleran’s office door. “Enter,” Holleran called. As the pair entered, the pepper-haired man looked up, his glasses glinting a little in the office’s overhead lights. “Constable Wordsworth, Constable Lane, how can I help you?”

For a second, short as a blink and longer than a lifetime to Ed, he froze. How could he do this to his mentor…to _Danny_? Understanding, Wordy stepped in and took the lead; Ed couldn’t help but feel grateful for his best friend’s intervention. “Sir, for awhile we’ve been noticing that Sergeant Rangford has been having some…personal problems,” Wordy explained. “We’ve tried talking to him, talking to the rest of the team, but we haven’t gotten anywhere.”

“Personal problems?” Holleran pressed, his eyes intent as he took in their report.

Wordy gave Ed an apologetic look before saying bluntly, “Yes, sir; we think he’s drinking. Not just off duty – he’s drinking on duty too.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “It started small, but he’s been drinking more and more; he came really close to screwing up a negotiation yesterday.”

Holleran leaned back in his chair, considering his two constables. “Are you two sure you want to do this? Your teammates won’t be pleased with you.”

Ed found his tongue. “Sir, at some point we have to draw the line,” he protested quietly, “If we’re not at the top of our game, then the bad guys win. This job’s about saving lives, not protecting a guy who won’t get help for himself.” He drew in a deep breath and admitted, “Sir, I _don’t_ want to do this, but if I don’t, I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting what happens when Sergeant Rangford has a break down on a call.”

“I’m with Ed,” Wordy declared, setting himself in place, shoulders back. “I don’t want to do this either, but if we don’t do something, the people we’re supposed to protect are _going_ to get hurt.”

Commander Holleran regarded them, then gave a short nod of acknowledgment. “All right then, gentlemen. Looks like we’ll need a new Sergeant for the SRU.” He picked up a folder on his desk, one that Ed could’ve sworn hadn’t been there an instant earlier. “Should be someone you know…someone you trust…” With a casual gesture, Holleran tossed a picture on his desk, the image sliding across and turning so they could see it. Ed sucked a shocked breath in; Wordy gasped.

“Greg.”

He saw blue light flare around Wordy; then yellow obscured his vision.

* * * * *

Spike almost walked right past the elevator; his inner turmoil blocking out almost all sound, but that sense of wrongness surged up again and, without thinking, he stopped, frowning as he looked around. The sound was so soft, it was almost subliminal – a faint cry for help, but Spike heard and turned towards it. The former bomb tech grabbed at the freight elevator’s door and yanked it upward, revealing a woman gagged, bound to a chair, and sporting a pipe bomb around her neck.

Spike gaped in sheer horror; her eyes pleaded for help, for aid. He broke free from the shock and stumbled forward, pulling the gag off first. “What happened?” he blurted, then winced at himself. Stupid, _stupid_ question.

“Please,” the woman pleaded, “Get the cops in the building here, I need to talk to them.”

By this time Spike had recovered enough to shake his head a little as he examined the pipe bomb. “Unless they got a bomb tech with them, there’s not a whole lot they can do, ma’am.” He leaned in closer, frowning to himself as he realized he _knew_ exactly how to disable this bomb, as if he’d done it before…

“My husband needs to know what those men told me,” the woman whispered. “Please…”

Spike looked around, trying to spot something he could use, and froze again. His toolkit was sitting next to the wall; the well-stocked bomb-diffusion toolkit he’d had to give up when he got fired. The odds against that happening were astronomical, but somehow he didn’t question his good fortune. He darted to the kit and scooped it up. Bringing it back to the woman, he offered, “I can get that off you, ma’am, no problem.”

She should have told him to go away, that she’d prefer for a professional to handle the necklace bomb, but she didn’t. Instead, she held perfectly still as Spike started taking the bomb apart, talking her through what he was doing the entire time. It went smoothly, so smoothly that Spike felt a flicker of alarm at how _easy_ it was, but his hands never trembled and he never had to guess which step came next; he just _knew_. As he was nearing the last step, they heard footsteps approaching.

“Someone’s coming,” the woman whispered, alarm threading her voice.

“Easy, easy,” Spike soothed automatically. “Tell whoever it is to give me another thirty seconds; I’m almost done.” He checked the connections one last time, then snipped the wires. They parted under the cutter without even a hint of trouble.

“Hey! Get away from her!” an angry male voice called from outside the elevator.

Spike didn’t even look up. “Almost, almost,” he hissed as he grabbed the bolt acting as the necklace’s hinge and pulled it loose. The necklace came apart harmlessly; the woman gasping in sheer relief as she eased the pipe away from her neck.

“He gave you a chance, didn’t he?” she murmured, her eyes on him. “The geek no one else wanted; until you got the chance you needed…the family you needed.”

“What?” Spike managed, confused. What was she talking about?

“Thank you, Constable Scarlatti. Now go get your mentor back.”

Hands grabbed him, but emerald light was already surrounding him, pulling him away.

* * * * *

_“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. You know, I’ve never seen somebody who’s ready to die put up such an awesome fight to stay alive.”_

She’d meant every word, but poor Tasha had been pushed to her limits by the vicious attack from a gang of girls who were almost _worse_ than their gangster boyfriends. Jules swallowed hard, ignoring the insults flowing over her comm for her decision to actually climb out on the ledge with Tasha. “Come on, Tasha, please? Will you give me your hand? Let’s climb over.”

“I can’t,” Tasha wailed, despair in her voice. She gripped the bar behind her with both hands, still not truly giving up, even as she leaned forward and looked down. “I can’t. I can’t. I’m dead anyway.”

“Get her out of there,” Jules’ Sergeant snapped over the comm. “What are you waiting for?”

Jules shoved down a choice comment or two; what she wouldn’t give for a team she could _trust_. “Tasha, I know that it feels like that. I know, but you're not.”

“It is. It's just how it is!” Tasha cried, but even as she was crying, there was that same refusal to give up buried deep in her voice. “I can’t... I can’t go to school. I can’t go to work. I can’t go home. For what? My mom? I got nobody! I have nobody! You don’t understand! You don’t know how it is!”

The words Jules spoke in response to that came from her heart; her sense of just how to reach this girl…how to make Sarge – _her_ Sarge – proud. “Okay, actually, Tasha... Look at me! Look at me! I do understand. Actually, I do. I do, and that’s why I’m standing right here. That’s why I’m here. Okay?”

Tearful eyes regarded Jules as she kept going. “And I want you to take my hand and I want to help you over. And you are gonna get through this. It might feel impossible, but you have the rest of your life, okay? And it’s gonna be tough, but it’s also gonna be really, really amazing. If you get through this, you can get through anything. I promise.” _I promise, Sarge._

Tasha looked at her for several long moments before nodding and starting to reach her hand towards Jules. Jules knew what would happen even before it did; Tasha slipped, screaming as she started to fall; Jules grabbed her and they fell together. Jules protected the young girl with her own body, her back slamming into the metal support beams as they reached the end of Jules’ anchor line.

After a moment, Jules craned her neck up, but she wasn’t all that surprised when no one appeared to pull them up. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you,” Jules soothed Tasha. “I need you to grab onto my belt as tight as you can and tell me if you start slipping.”

“Okay,” Tasha squeaked, grabbing hold and clinging like a monkey to Jules.

Afterwards, Jules wasn’t sure how she managed to get back up to the top without help; she only knew she managed it without losing Tasha. As the two crawled onto the platform, Jules was annoyed, but not surprised that her so-called teammates were absolutely nowhere to be found. The brunette panted hard, trying to get her breath back. “You okay?” she finally gasped in Tasha’s direction.

Tasha looked her in the eye and spoke with a voice not her own: deep, gentle, and pleased, “I’m proud of you, Julianna Callaghan.”

“S-sarge?” Pink light wrapped around her.

* * * * *

The trip to Diagon Alley was a total bust, as Lance had known it would be from the start. He honestly didn’t know why Mr. Potter wanted both of his new charges to get new wands when they already had wands, but Mr. Potter had; in fact, he’d insisted on it. It was stupid and Lance spent most of the trip plotting out ways to keep _his_ wand and Alanna’s, too, if he could swing it; she’d come around, he just _knew_ it.

Of course, they hadn’t even reached Ollivander’s before things went sideways; a woman dressed in Death Eater regalia caught Mr. Potter by surprise, knocking him out before he even knew she was there. Then she turned towards Lance and Alanna, malice in her eyes and her wand raised.

Lance hauled Alanna with him as he bolted, running as fast as he could go. The Death Eater was right on their heels, laughing at them. “Run all you want, little Calvins,” she sneered. “You won’t get away from me.”

“ _Astrice_ **(4)** _!_ ” Lance yelled, hitting her hard and making her stumble backwards. _Wait…how’d I know that spell…Dad only taught me_ Forbearne _…_

“You little brat! _Reducto!_ ”

The Reducto hurled them against a wall and the older boy staggered to his feet. He didn’t reach for his wand; instead, he faced down the Death Eater calmly, head high. “You can’t have my family,” he spat, his eyes glowing gold.

“Never again,” Alanna agreed, her own eyes glowing a bright, fierce violet.

She laughed at them. “And what,” she purred, “Can two untrained, untested Wild Mages like you do to me?”

Their magic flared, escaping their control in a split second. And as it flared, Lance saw clearly for the first time in hours. He saw the Netherworld around them, felt the illusion waver under his boots, the weight of his sword at his side. And, most importantly, he _remembered_. Alanna gasped, reaching for her bow; violet light danced around her as she, too, remembered. His sword practically _sang_ with his magic as he drew it, shrieking defiance of the true enemy here.

“Begone, shade,” he ordered, his voice deeper, firmer: a man’s voice coming from a half-grown teenager.

The shade wailed in mortal terror, quailing from the authority in his voice. “You will not take our family from us,” Alanna snarled, her voice, too, older and wiser.

“No, no,” the shade whimpered, cringing back from both of them. “You cannot, your magic cannot be that strong.”

Lance smirked, gold swirling around him as he let his magic flow. “We’ll take our uncle back now, thank you.”

Golden light encased him as violet swarmed his sister.

* * * * *

Eight pulses of light illuminated their surroundings. Each Narnian Knight surveyed their landing point with utter frustration; as if everything else they’d been through hadn’t been bad enough, now they were trapped in prison cells. And separated; not a single member of the team, even those who’d been ‘paired’ in the illusions, was together.

In the southernmost prison cell, Alanna Calvin bit back a most unladylike curse. She looked around, studying the stalactite-stalagmite bars between her and freedom. Then she smirked. Out loud she announced, “If you think _this_ is going to stop us from rescuing my uncle, after all the other stuff you’ve thrown at us, you are _so_ going down so hard you’ll bounce. _No one_ hurts my family; never again.”

As she spoke, violet swirled around her hands and she thrust both hands forward at the bars. The bars rocked violently under the assault, violet flames wrapping around them. After a moment, the violet faded, pushed down by the demon wards on the cell. Alanna was undeterred, she just smirked again. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Another volley of violet fire rocked the bars.

 

[4] Old English for ‘I strike’


	12. Stand Together

“ _Alohomora!_ ” Lance snapped, aiming his wand at the cell’s ‘door,’ – if two stones twisted together could be called a door. A dull orange light came from the door, resisting his attempt to force his way out. The young man frowned, casting a quick diagnostic spell. _Rats. Demon wards…I should have guessed._ Lance tucked his wand away, thinking hard. The ward was set to resist Latin spells and brute force, but…

He smirked, casting the door a smug look. “Missed a spot,” he taunted his unknown captor. “ _Tospringe_ **(5)** _!_ ” The stones tumbled back, sundering themselves as they fell out of the Wild Mage’s path. Lance stepped out of the cell, looking around. Whoever had taken him prisoner hadn’t taken the precaution of guards, another stupid decision. A flick of his wrist and his wand dropped into his left hand. “ _Point me, Alanna Calvin_.” He nodded to himself as the wand spun and ended up pointing to his right. The wand stayed in his hand as he raced down the right-hand path; he never noticed a raven-haired man watching him from the top of his former cell, an unreadable expression on the stranger’s face.

* * * * *

Wordy tisked to himself as he surveyed the poorly built door to his cell. Shoddy, shoddy work, he’d seen dilapidated warehouses with better doors. The brunet hefted his shield off his back and drove the point on the shield’s bottom into a small gap in the lower center of the rock that served as a door. Putting his shoulder behind the shield, he began to lever the rocks outwards, grunting at the effort and the strain it put on his shoulders.

It took longer than he really wanted it to, but, eventually, the rocks gave way and tumbled outwards. Wordy scrambled out of the cell, only to stop short as he realized he had no idea where he was or which way to go. For lack of a better option, he started down the right path, coming to a stop as his sword warmed and tugged in the other direction. Testing it, he took another step forward; the sword jerked harder in the opposite direction. With a shrug, Wordy opted to follow the sword’s direction; he turned and started jogging down the left path. Above, the same man who’d watched Lance smiled, his blue eyes glinting gold as his subtle prompting succeeded. With a whispered word, the man vanished.

* * * * *

Spike grumbled under his breath as he worked his makeshift lockpick into the cell door’s lock. Unlike his teammates, his door was an actual door, with an actual lock; if a lock about five centuries out of date. But Spike was not about to be deterred by the sturdy, heavy lock, he owed the pond-scum who’d trapped them in here a good thrashing; right after they rescued his boss, of course. A careful twist, a tiny jolt, a bend _just so_ and the lock popped open.

“Yes!” He shoved the door open and ducked out, glee in every line. “Score one for the geek.” Spike surveyed the two paths and picked the right one, running flat out; somehow he knew there was no time to waste, not any more. As he disappeared around a bend, the man perched above the cell gave a soft chuckle at the tech’s antics, his eyes sad.

* * * * *

Lance found his sister less than five minutes from his cell; he heard her several dozen meters before he saw her. She was hurling raw magic at the cell bars, slowly burning through the demon ward, but Lance knew she’d exhaust herself long before that ward gave. “ ‘Lanna, stop!” he hollered, pushing himself that much faster.

Fortunately, she obeyed; when Lance burst into her line of sight, she was standing with arms crossed, a decidedly annoyed look on her face. “I could’ve done it,” she complained, ignoring the fact that she was already sweating and starting to run low on power.

Lance opted not to contradict her; instead, he waved his right hand at the cell door, snapping, “ _Tospringe_.” The stones burst apart; ‘Lanna stepped through them with a haughty mien. “We’re running out of time, sis. No time for playing around anymore.”

The haughty air vanished; ‘Lanna gave him a frightened look at the idea of _losing_ their uncle. Then her jaw firmed and she stood straighter. “Then let’s go, brother mine.”

Before they could move, the stone walls around them gave a rumble and _twisted_ , the landscape writhing like a living creature. When it stopped, there was only one path to take and a massive, armored minotaur stood right in their way, a battleaxe in his grasp. Lance drew his sword, Alanna her bow; the siblings faced off with the monster, eyes grim.

* * * * *

Lou sighed, examining his cell in minute detail, searching for the one spot that could be used to escape; there had to be _some_ way out of this trap. He almost missed it, but his best friend’s love of quirky movies came to his aid; he found a small gap in the side of his cell. A careful prod of the gap produced a muffled _click_ from another wall. Lou crossed to the other wall and found a seam in the rock where light shone faintly through. He pulled on the rock, surprised when it moved smoothly. It didn’t take long to get it open enough to slip out.

The passageway was dim, but, as he walked through it, he could see light, feel air against his face. The tunnel wound and wove, turning this way and that, shrinking in size, only to expand into an impressive cave system. The light dimmed and brightened, but never went out. The air brushing past him varied in speed, but it too never stopped. At last he spied what looked at first like a dead end, but he wasn’t about to call it quits at the first sign of trouble. Especially since the light was much brighter here, the air fresher and cleaner.

Lou examined the dead end, running his fingers over every little nook and cranny. Ironically, it wasn’t his fingers who found the ‘key’ this time. As he stepped forward, he heard another _click_ from beneath his boot. He froze and might have stayed there, but for the gleam of light from the dead end. Another hidden passage. He stepped forward, cringing as he lifted his foot. Nothing happened. Lou bolted for the door, yanking it open as fast as he could. As it opened, he froze again.

“Jules?”

* * * * *

Spike slowed, panting a little; he didn’t usually run this long or this far at a dead sprint. He’d sprinted because he had a nasty little feeling that they were running out of time, but his mind finally caught up with him and pointed out that running headfirst into trouble wouldn’t help _either_. The slowing worked in his favor; it meant he heard Ed’s colorful commentary before he saw the team leader. The tech picked up his pace again and rounded the next corner to see another cell…with the same type of door he’d had on _his_ cell.

“Ed?”

Ed appeared at the cell’s bars, looking a bit incredulous. “Spike? How’d you get here?”

Spike grinned, he couldn’t help himself. “Broke out,” he informed the team leader nonchalantly. Bending down, he examined the lock and smirked. “Piece of cake; I’ll have you out in just a sec.” Fitting action to words, he pulled out his lockpick and went to work. It was much easier the second time, the lock popped open without a hitch. “There you go, Ed.”

“Thanks, Scarlatti,” Ed replied, stepping out. Before he could say anything else, the rock walls _flexed_ , the resulting tremors throwing both men to the ground. The Knights scrambled up, drawing their weapons as the moving rocks revealed a rather nasty sight: a massive monster that looked like a cross between a bird and a Pteranodon **(6)**. Spike swallowed hard; it was do or die time. And no Lance and Alanna to bail them out this time… He pulled his shield off his back, settling it in place on his left arm; Ed nocked an arrow on his bow, aiming carefully.

“Ready,” Spike hissed.

The slightest tilt of the team leader’s head told him Ed had heard; the arrow flew, hitting the monster right at the join of wing and body. The fight was on.

* * * * *

“Lou!” Jules cried, lowering her bow hastily. “How’d you get here?”

Lou shrugged. “Found a secret passage out of my cell,” he informed her, already scanning her cell for another gap – and hopefully a way out. “I’m getting tired of this.”

“Seconded,” Jules agreed. “I don’t know, Lou; this almost feels more like delaying tactics than anything else…keep us away until it’s too late.”

Lou grunted agreement as he found what he was looking for: another small protrusion that he pressed down on. _Click_. His smile was a trifle vicious as he surveyed the now open panel on the side wall. “Keep that bow of yours up, Jules,” he requested as he carefully pulled the panel out. With Jules on his heels, Lou made his way through the much shorter tunnel to the outside. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy; a wolf-man was waiting for them, jaws open and dripping as it surveyed its would-be victims. Lou grabbed his shield first, then drew his sword as Jules’ first arrow whistled past him and into the beast. The beast howled in fury and lunged forward.

* * * * *

Wordy heard Sam long before he saw him; the Squib-born sniper was yelling at the top of his lungs, trying to get attention. Wordy rounded the corner to see one of those pig-goblins grunting and squealing at Sam, its paws swiping at Sam through the bars of his cell. The constable couldn’t tell if Sam was hurt or not, but the thing’s actions enraged him nonetheless, reminding him of a cat playing with its prey.

Wordy yanked his sword out of its sheath and his shield off his back, charging with a roar. The pig-goblin turned, its tiny eyes narrowing before it too charged, launching at the broad SRU cop with another squeal. Wordy blocked the creature’s charge with his shield. The pig thing slammed into the shield like a small tank; Wordy was nearly knocked off his feet. The moment it took to brace his feet cost him dearly; the pig-goblin rammed him to the side and swiped at his right side.

Reflexively, Wordy brought his arm up to block, wincing in anticipation of the inevitable injuries. His vambrace flared, blue light surging up and knocking the stout demon away; Wordy twisted around, bringing his shield down into the thing’s face, _hard_. Unfamiliar weapon or not, it wasn’t hard to hit something less than six inches away and Wordy finished the demon off with a thrust to its heart.

For a few seconds, Wordy stood there, panting and staring at his vambraces in astonishment. _How the heck did it_ do _that? And why blue? Unless it has something to do with…_ He cut that line of thought off and headed towards Sam’s cell, hoping the pig-goblin hadn’t hurt his teammate.

“Wordy?” Sam called worriedly as the brunet got closer. “You okay?”

“No harm,” Wordy called back, rolling both shoulders; the pig-goblin’s charge had _hurt_ , jarring his arms and back badly, but he was fine for now. He looked down at his sword and made a face, putting it away with gore all over it did _not_ appeal.

“Here,” Sam offered; Wordy looked up to see Sam had thrust a rag through the bars of his cell.

The brunet slung his shield back into place and took the rag. “Thanks,” he remarked, cleaning his sword as best he could with the small scrap of cloth.

Sam shrugged. “No problem; it came from the last resident.”

Wordy paused at that; Sam’s deliberate blankness told him what fate had befallen the ‘last resident.’ “You okay?” he asked, keeping his own tone even.

“No harm,” Sam reported, though the look in his eyes belied that. So did the fine tremors that shook Sam’s body. Wordy didn’t blame him; if Sam’s ‘vision’ had been anything like his and Ed’s, well – no, Wordy didn’t blame him at all.

Wordy finished cleaning his sword and sheathed it, still awkward with that part – no, actually still awkward with the entire sword and shield deal. “All right, let’s get you out of there,” Wordy decided, examining the ‘door’ to Sam’s cell. To his surprise, it was rather like the door of his cell, right down to the gap he could use to lever the rocks apart. “Sam, make sure you’re as far from the door as possible,” he ordered, pulling his shield over his head again.

“Copy,” Sam acknowledged, getting in the far corner.

Wordy jammed the shield in, working it a little to get a slightly better angle, then started pushing. His shoulders protested, twinging with strain and overwork; Wordy ignored them. Once they got Sarge back, then he could stop and let the various nicks, bruises, and cuts get looked at.

Just thinking about Sarge’s situation gave him a surge of much needed anger and adrenaline; he yelled and shoved upwards. The rocks gave with a rumble and fell inwards, away from Sam. Sam scrambled over the rocks as soon as Wordy yanked his shield back out and got clear of the door. “Let’s go,” Wordy told his teammate.

“Cop…” Sam started, only to stop as the walls around them cracked, rocks tumbling down. The ground trembled, almost throwing both men off their feet, but then it stilled. One passageway was left after the quake, making it clear which way they would be going. Sam pulled his bow off his back as a precaution and, with one final glance between them, they started down the path.

* * * * *

The man on top of a cliff watched with pleasure and no small amount of pride as the Narnian Knights reunited. His eyes focused on the two Wild Mages in particular, a sad smile twisting his mouth. How like their ancestor they were: refusing to back down, refusing to give up, and honorable right down to the ground. He’d been shocked, utterly shocked, when he’d found out Lancelot’s nephew had _magic_ and downright horrified when Lancelot’s sister told him _Lancelot_ had had magic too. If he’d known before Lancelot died, maybe…maybe they could have done something different, closed the Veil another way. Maybe he could have freed Lancelot from Morgana’s Shade spell without him dying again, his soul bound to Morgana’s command, even in death.

The spell the two young Wild Mages had used to get here hadn’t actually been intended for their ‘uncle,’ though it certainly served that purpose. No, it had been meant for…another. Merlin Emrys turned his head, glaring at the stone fortress that hid _two_ lost souls. Well over fifteen centuries since Camelot and he’d never been able to fix this mess and save one of his closest friends. But if he was right, if they were willing… Sir Lancelot’s descendants might well save more than just Greg Parker’s soul this day.

Wind whipped around the ancient warlock, ruffling his clothing and his neckerchief; he slammed the butt of his staff on the cliff. _Please, let this work._

 

[5] Old English for ‘burst open’

[6] Technically, _not_ a dinosaur, though these ancient winged reptiles are often associated with and mislabeled as such.


	13. Never Left Behind

Lance surveyed the fortress below them, idly shifting his sword in its sheath. His sister stood right beside him, giving the well fortified building an evil look. The rest of the Narnian Knights were feeling the loss of technology; they didn’t have their binoculars to examine the building for weak points or the gear necessary to climb up its sheer walls. Fortunately, what the techies couldn’t do, Lance could, thanks to his Animagus form. “I see a way in,” he announced, grim and flat. “It’s almost directly below us, but getting there is going to be…”

“Not a problem,” Alanna broke in, pointing. All of the Knights gaped as a portion of the cliff fell away, shifting form into a stone staircase that wound downwards toward their goal.

“Okay, that’s…suspiciously convenient,” Lou observed.

Suspicious or not, they had no time to waste nor any other way to get down, so they headed down the stone steps, melee fighters in front, snipers in the back. With everything that had gone wrong thus far, they were taking no chances. Neither Lance nor Alanna had their wands drawn; a calculated risk that their use of Old Magic was much stronger than any Latin spells they could bring to bear.

As the Knights reached the bottom, they spotted several massive blue demons encased in ice. The demons sported axes longer than Ed was tall and were heavily armored. The Knights exchanged looks and headed past the demons as quickly as they could; no one wanted to stick around to see how long those things took to melt – or what would happen when they did.

“Okay, any ideas?” Wordy asked as soon as they were inside. “ ‘Cause something fishy’s going on; first that staircase, then those demons on ice.”

“Literally on ice,” Spike joked.

Lance shook his head, but Alanna looked rather thoughtful as she considered Wordy’s question. “I’ve been thinking, actually, and something doesn’t make sense _anyway_ ,” she remarked, “Why would Emrys give our family a spell that wouldn’t be used for centuries?”

“Maybe he knew?” Jules offered, though the explanation sounded weak to her.

Alanna looked over at her, still frowning. “But why? Silnok said the spell was a huge risk, one he wouldn’t have suggested if there was any other way, so why invent a spell like that for someone Emrys didn’t even know?”

“What are you thinking?” Wordy asked, his expression turning intent; what she was saying made sense – why craft a dangerous spell when you didn’t have a stake in the outcome?

“I’m not sure,” Alanna admitted. “But you don’t take a risk like that without a reason.” The witch didn’t seem to notice the agreeing nods the adults traded as she looked up at the ceiling and continued, “I mean, the spell’s set so _only_ a Calvin by blood can even _use_ it; Emrys couldn’t use his own spell. A spell designed for knights, for a warlock of Calvin blood…” She shook her head. “Almost as if he thought the knights would have a stake in it, in saving whoever the spell was originally intended to save.”

“Originally intended to save?” Ed demanded, eyebrows shooting up.

“Ed, it makes sense,” Wordy cut in. “ ‘Lanna’s right, you don’t make a spell like this without a reason and I’m betting it’s a _personal_ reason. But if you _were_ making this spell, you’d want to be _absolutely_ positive that whoever you took through was on your side and had the same motivation as you did for coming.”

“More than that,” Lance put in from the front, “In spite of all the trouble we’ve had, that spell put us in _exactly_ the right place. The night before we left, we talked to Mindy some more and she said that the Netherworld is the size of the known universe, so the odds of landing in the right place were probably something like a million to one, maybe worse.”

Team One traded unnerved looks at the tidbit; they could have happily lived the rest of their lives without knowing the odds had been that slim. “You’re saying someone’s been helping us all along?” Ed queried.

“Then why not stop those entities from attacking us?” Wordy questioned, right on Ed’s heels.

Alanna shook her head, but Lance cocked his, considering. “I might know why,” he said, thoughtful, considering. “Those…illusions…they challenged us, forced us to really choose which side we were on. Easy or hard, no in-between.” He looked down for a moment, then soldiered on. “It’s easy to give up and let someone else deal with a problem, but it’s a lot harder to face things head on, especially when people we trust say what’s going on is okay, even normal.”

Sam almost skidded to a stop, remembering how _easy_ it would have been, in his illusion, to take the shot and walk away. The others were similarly unnerved, remembering their own experiences. “But what’s the point?” Sam asked, “I mean, why force us to face choices that never really happened?”

“Our mystery guy _didn’t_ ,” Jules pointed out. “Whatever he – or she – is up to, they didn’t create those illusions, the bad guys did.”

“But there was a way out,” Wordy added, dawning realization in his eyes. “The bad guys did those illusions, trying to trap us, but there was a way out, an escape route.”

“That wasn’t our mystery guy,” Lance said, soft and sure. “ ‘In this world you will have trouble. But take heart, I have overcome the world. **(7)**’ The way out _wasn’t_ the bad guys _or_ our mystery helper, it was someone a whole lot more powerful than them.”

Team One shuddered at the idea of someone more powerful than the demons and entities they’d seen thus far, but Alanna figured out who her brother was talking about and lit up in clear joy. “Aslan!” she exclaimed, pure delight in her voice.

At the name, Team One felt, deep inside, a curious sensation. Some of them felt brave and adventurous, even in the midst of the demon realm around them; others felt refreshed, as if the name itself had been a drink of the purest, living water and they’d had their fill. Most of them had heard the name ‘Aslan’ before; after discovering magic was real, they’d been much more interested in fantasy books, but none of them had heard the name with such an _emphasis_ in the sound.

Lance grinned back at his sister, eyes dancing. “Come on, sis, as if anything happens that He doesn’t know about. He knows what we’re up against, even if we don’t, and whoever it is, I bet they haven’t taken Him into account.” A child’s confidence rang in his voice; the strong belief that, no matter what happens, the worst won’t happen because Someone won’t _let_ it happen.

The adults were not so sure, after all, hadn’t the kids lost their parents? Lost their home and almost everything they’d known? And now they stood to lose the only family they had left, to something that could so easily have been prevented, especially by an all-powerful, all-knowing God. After all that tragedy, how could anyone still believe in God or Aslan or whatever name you called Him by? And if God was loving and just, why did He _let_ evil things happen…why didn’t He intervene and protect the innocent lives Team One fought to save _every single day_?

But there was no time to question the teens further, because right then Lance spotted a gate into the prison area and gave a triumphant cry as he dove for it. “Gotcha,” he hissed, looking the gate over. He yanked on it and it rattled.

“Locked,” Ed observed grimly.

“Not for long,” Lance countered, gesturing at the gate with his left hand with a sharp, “ _Tospringe_.” The gate clicked open, the teenager shoving his shoulder against it to force the gate wide open. Beyond the gate were rows, on either side of the corridor, of cells, rough hewn and crude, but effective nonetheless.

The Knights entered cautiously, weapons up and their eyes on the move. The two Wild Mages didn’t even bother with calling out their uncle’s name; their eyes lit with their magic as they ‘flung’ it outwards to search for him.

“He’s not here,” Alanna reported, her eyes still glowing; unhappiness marked every syllable and line of her face.

Wordy was about to ask her where their Sergeant was, when a flare of brown light came from nearby; the Narnian Knights whirled, weapons at the ready. Facing them was a ghost, a real ghost. He was about Wordy’s height, perhaps a centimeter or two shorter, with crew-cut black hair and the beginnings of a beard and mustache on his face. Dark brown eyes surveyed them soberly and he wore the chain mail, sword, and cloak of a Camelotean Knight. “Well met, Heirs of mine,” he whispered, his voice distant and echoing.

Lance blinked, then his eyes widened as the pieces clicked together. “You’re Sir Lancelot!” he blurted.

“What, as in the knight?” Ed questioned. Wordy quirked a brow, after everything they’d seen the past couple of days, _this_ was a surprise? Somehow, he personally wouldn’t be surprised if the _real_ Merlin turned out to be their mystery helper. Or if it had been the _real_ Morgana Le Fay who’d attacked them with that second set of illusions.

“Time runs short, my Heirs,” Sir Lancelot informed them, his tone grave. “The demon Tolay would bind your cousin to this realm for all time.” Hisses of outrage met his words, but he hardly blinked. “I will show you the way, but you must hurry. Do not stop, not for anything.”

So saying he led them through the dungeon to another corridor, just as rough hewn as the cells, with rocky protrusions serving as torch holders. Sir Lancelot pointed along the corridor. “This leads to Tolay’s throne room, where the Witch, Morgana Le Fay, seeks to bind your cousin’s soul as once she did mine. The two bindings will, in time, destroy him.” He bowed his head, regret in his face. “Would that I could do more to aid you, but I cannot. May the Lion be with you.”

Lance inclined his head in thanks, then the Knights raced down the corridor at a full sprint. A massive blue demon strode out of a side corridor and gave an outraged bellow, hefting its axe. Another man appeared, staff whirling as he forced the demon back. “Go, quickly,” he yelled, diverting the demon enough to let the Knights pass. Jules glanced back to see the demon wail as it was encased in ice, just like the demons outside had been.

“Come on, guys,” Wordy panted, “We’re close, we can make it.”

Lance, in front, spotted a harpy fluttering above. It gave a screech of alarm. “Intruders! Intruders!”

“ _Forbearne!_ ” A fireball impacted the harpy, dropping it; Lance didn’t even break stride.

But the alarm had been raised; the doors the Knights were racing towards began to close. Lance narrowed his eyes and between one step and the next, he _blurred_ ; a gryphon’s furious, defiant cry echoed in the corridor as he sprang at the doors. Illishar hit the doors with every ounce of his strength, forcing them back open; one shoulder held the right door open and his hind paws were braced against the left door.

Beyond the doors was a throne room, or rather a terrible mocking parody of one. The floor was, as everywhere else in the fortress, rough hewn and scattered with rocky protrusions. The pillars leading up to the throne were the same stalactite-stalagmite bars of the prison cells, if much thicker and substantial. The throne itself was something a barbarian warlord would have been proud of; it was made of bones and decorated with skulls from a variety of creatures, both human and not.

The demon standing in front of the throne was even larger than the blue demons the Knights had seen thus far; broad in the shoulders, heavily muscled, and a sickly green in color. He sported two pairs of horns, one pair jutting straight up from his head, the other long and curled, like thin triple sized longhorn cattle horns. He had dark red eyes that gleamed in fury and a maw that sported nothing but sharp, sabertooth teeth. The grotesque demon didn’t look even vaguely human, with his utterly inhuman glare, animal-like snarl, and the raw hatred that shrouded him like a cloak. To the demon’s left, the woman they’d encountered before stood, a crystal globe in her left hand and madness gleaming in her eyes.

And before both of them, gaping at the new arrivals, was Sergeant Greg Parker.

 

[7] John 16:33b NIV


	14. Lion of Judah

He remembered being in the briefing room, trying to get some paperwork done, then a chill had gone up his spine and he’d been _here_ , wherever here was. He hadn’t given up; he’d known his team would come after him, known that somehow they’d come. Even when the woman, sneering, haughty, and clearly insane, had appeared and started mocking him, he hadn’t given up.

It hadn’t been until she left the first time that he realized he couldn’t sense his team anymore, couldn’t tell where they were or what they were feeling. Oh it had been fading awhile, getting more controllable, but it had never completely gone away. He’d freaked out then, nearly gone catatonic from the shock of _not_ having that reassuring pulse in the background; his heart and mind desperate for what only a day before he would have gladly given up.

But Greg Parker was made of sterner stuff than even _he_ knew and the freak-out hadn’t lasted nearly as long as his captors wanted it to. Instead, he’d recovered from the shock within a day and gone right back to being convinced, from the top of his head to the bottom of his bare feet, that his team was coming for him.

It hadn’t been until Morgana taunted him with the knowledge that they _had_ come and she’d enspelled them that he’d given up, given in. Which was what Tolay and Morgana had wanted all along, that the guardian of the last Narnians would give up, his resistance broken by despair. They’d wasted no time at all in their preparations to finish the job; to bind Greg Parker to the Netherworld and Morgana’s will for all eternity.

Then the harpy on watch shrieked, “Intruders! Intruders!” and everything fell apart, like the house of cards it had been all along.

Morgana threw both hands out, screaming the spell to close the doors; they began to close, ponderous and slow, but that Wild Mage, the gryphon, threw himself between the doors and held them open long enough for his companions to get in. And as Greg Parker’s friends and family skidded in the doors, his broken resolve, his broken will, flared like embers given new life. Tolay howled denial as Parker looked back at the throne, victory in his eyes. “Told you they’d come.”

But Morgana Le Fay was not about to give up, not at the moment of her triumph. Her magic wrapped around her hands, glowing the same sickly green as Tolay’s skin. “Let us see if they can save you,” she hissed, “ _Akwele_ **(8)** _!_ ”

Alanna couldn’t take the time to leap between her uncle and the spell, so she did the only thing she could. Her bow, already nocked with an arrow, aimed at the spell, the arrowhead glowing violet. She released; the arrow flew past Greg and struck Morgana’s spell head on, the resulting explosion engulfing the arrow and obliterating the witch’s spell. Illishar snarled defiance, twisting away from the doors and landing between Greg and the macabre throne. He _blurred_ and Lance, sword already drawn, reappeared.

“Surprise,” Wordy taunted, as the Knights crowded in, beside their Sergeant and the kids. “Hope we’re not late to the party; _somebody_ tried to delay us a couple times.”

“We’ll take our Sarge back now,” Lou added, fairly glowering at the witch and the demon.

“Secrets and all,” Ed agreed, casting Greg a ‘we- _will_ -be-talking-later’ look. Greg ducked his head in shame and acknowledgement.

“Come on, Ed,” Sam protested, aiming his bow right at Tolay, “Families aren’t perfect, there’s always _something_ going on in the background.”

“Samtastic’s got a point,” Spike agreed, doing his best to look like he knew how to handle the sword and shield in his hands.

“I think not,” Tolay rumbled abruptly, cutting through the banter with a cunning look in his eyes. “After all, you have trespassed on _my_ domain, slaughtered my servants, and broken into my fortress.” His massive head turned towards the two teenagers. “If the two of _you_ are the epitome of Wild Mages born these days…” He laughed, coarse and harsh. “You have brought your _friends_ to naught but torture and death; let _that_ be your lesson for intruding into _my_ affairs.” Still laughing his harsh, demonic laugh, Tolay stepped forward, one clawed hand glowing with hellfire as he regarded the humans.

“They have not.” In a brown glow, Sir Lancelot appeared in front of the Knights. His back was straight, his head high as he stared down his longtime captors. “They have not brought their kin by spirit here to die. Rather, it is _you_ who have erred in this entire affair; bungled things from the very start.” The knight shook his head. “You have forgotten the Deep Magic; magic far older, far more powerful than either of you care to acknowledge.”

Tolay shifted back, nervous even as Morgana scoffed loudly. “What have we to fear from an ancient _cat_ , feeble and old?” she sneered.

Lance and Alanna traded looks behind their ancestor’s ghost and nodded once. “In Aslan’s name, demon begone,” Alanna ordered, her voice older and wiser as she spoke.

Tolay wailed anguish, hunching in on himself; Morgana started back at his cry, whirling towards him in dismay. “What is this?” she demanded, shrill and loud. With a snarl of her own, she whirled back. “I will destroy you!” she hissed, lifting both hands. Wordy tried to shift to the front, guard the kids with his rather battered shield; a Lion’s roar echoed in the room.

“Enough!” the Lion growled, tail lashing. One moment the space He occupied had been empty, then He had been there. “Your time is past, Daughter of Eve; the land you sought to rule has passed into history and legend.” A low, rumbling snarl came from His jaws. “You may not have them; no more than I allowed Jadis to have the Pevensies. It is done; it is over.”

Morgana was pale and trembling, terrified of the Lion, but at His last words, a strange defiance came over her; she lost all self-control and threw a spell at the Lion. Whirling, she hurled another spell at the Narnian Knights, shrieking like a banshee. The spells never struck; the Lion roared once and the spells halted in midair, then dissipated. The witch wailed with the same despair that Tolay had, cowering from the great Lion’s rage.

“Son of Adam,” the Lion rumbled, looking toward Sir Lancelot, “You are free, go now in peace.” Sir Lancelot’s face transformed into joy and relief; he vanished almost before Aslan finished speaking. Aslan turned to face the Knights, pleasure writ across His muzzle. “Well done,” He praised, then He blew a warm breath on them; the Netherworld faded away.

Around them, the walls, floor, and furniture of Calvin Manor solidified. Ed did a quick head-count, grinning as he realize they were _all_ there. Beside him, Alanna was doing her own head-count, her smile growing wider with each passing moment.

Of course, it was Spike who finally broke the moment with a triumphant yell of, “We _did it!_ ” The rest of the team whooped and cheered, though Greg Parker looked rather stunned by the sudden twist of events and there was still a dazed look in his eyes.

* * * * *

It wasn’t quite that simple, of course, they still had to get a very ghost-like Sergeant Parker home to Toronto, but spirits were high and Team One was not about to let a few small, trifling details ruin their good moods. The first order of business was to get their borrowed swords back to Diagon Alley and the Calvin family vault; they also needed to pick up their duffle bags with their modern gear and tech.

Alanna suggested delaying their departure from Calvin Manor until her uncle could change into, well, something other than the ragged clothing he currently had on. She shyly offered the bag she’d been carrying for the past day, saying, “Silnok had armor made for everyone, Uncle Greg. This is your set.”

Greg, more than a bit overwhelmed by the events of the past week, took the bag, staring at it blankly for a few seconds. “Thanks Alanna,” he finally murmured. She studied him closely, then ran into him and hugged him as hard she could. The bag fell to the ground as he hugged her back, trying not to cry. He lost the fight as his nephew and his team crowded in, his nephew hugging him as well while his team was just… _there_.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Uncle Greg,” Alanna whispered.

“Me too, sweetheart.”

Eddie broke the moment with a dry, “Now get out of those rags, Boss. They don’t look good and they’re against regs.”

Greg laughed, a rusty sound that told his team just how bad it had been for him. “Copy that, Eddie.”

* * * * *

The kids took the lead once the Knights reached Diagon Alley, something Greg shot Eddie a confused look about. Ed drifted closer to his boss; except for the faint glow of red around Greg, visible even with his new set of armor on, Ed might have been fooled into thinking Greg was just fine. “The kids are better at handling the snobs who think we’re ‘Muggleborn’ wizards,” Ed explained.

Greg nodded, understanding. “So, prejudice _is_ worse here than in Toronto,” he observed.

“Heck of a lot worse,” Wordy chipped in from the opposite side. “I have no idea how the tech-borns handle it…unless they all move once they’re adults.”

“They do,” Sam remarked, grinning a little at Greg and Wordy’s startled looks. “Move, that is. Some of ‘em go back to the tech world full time; they get a regular education if they can or make do with what they can. Others leave the country, for Europe, America, Canada, Australia: anywhere that doesn’t have quite as much prejudice.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully; in a way, that was what his ancestor had done, only he hadn’t been forced out the way many Squibs were. “Makes sense.”

None of the Knights realized it, but their reception was much different than it had been the first time they’d been in Diagon Alley. Instead of going mostly unnoticed, with a few sneers from the more snobbish purebloods, the witches and wizards going about their daily lives all but scattered away from the group in full armor with swords, bows, and arrows; it had, after all, been a _very_ long time since any sort of tech weapon had been openly carried in the British wizarding world. Of the group, only Greg was completely unarmed, but then, not much can hurt a ghost and he was somewhat hidden in the center of the group.

As the Knights all but swept into Gringotts, the atrium went very quiet, customers staring at the new arrivals and the goblin tellers rather impressed with the group’s visible weapons and armor; in that moment, the Knights earned the respect of Gringotts London – a small, fledgling respect to be sure, but more than most wizards ever earned. No sooner had they settled into line than a goblin appeared from a side corridor and hurried over. “Follow, please,” the goblin requested.

The goblin led them straight to Silnok’s office and bowed them in. Silnok himself looked positively delighted and was shooting the wizard already present several smug looks. The black-haired man rose from his chair, giving all of them a bow as Silnok introduced him, “Heirs of Calvin, Knights of Toronto, allow me to present Lord Merlin Emrys.”

“You’re Emrys?” Alanna blurted in shock, eyes wide.

He gave her a sad smile. “I am,” he confirmed quietly. “I am sorry for the entity Morgana sent to the Isle of the Blessed; I never suspected she would go as far as she did.”

Greg stayed out of it; he hadn’t been the one affected by the illusions, he had no right to judge or forgive. Spike, quick on his feet, countered, “You didn’t cast those illusions, did you?”

Emrys shook his head. “No, I did not, Constable Scarlatti.”

“But you were there, weren’t you,” Jules remarked softly. “You were helping us, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Emrys admitted. “Not as much as I wanted to, believe me. The Netherworld isn’t easy to get to, even for me, and magic works…differently there.” He scowled, but not at them. “By the time I had a better handle on how to use my magic there, you’d all but finished the job.”

“I don’t know about the rest of us, but I’m calling Shenanigans on that one,” Lou countered. “You got that cliff to drop for us, you got those demons for us, so believe me, you helped.”

Murmurs of agreement came from the rest of the Knights, including the two Wild Mages. Lance stepped forward, eyes coming up to meet Emrys’s. “Thank you for your help, Lord Emrys. If you wish it, we will return the swords that belong to the Knights of Camelot to your care.”

Old blue met young blue, young blue nervous in spite of his formality and old blue assessing, measuring. Then Emrys smiled, a slow lopsided grin that made him look years younger. “Someday, Camelot will rise again,” he replied softly. “Until that time, I can think of no better family to care for their swords. They would not have begrudged your use of their swords; they would have been very proud to help. I can return the swords to your family vault; it’s the least I can do after you helped save one of my oldest and dearest friends.”

Lance blinked, mute with surprise and no small amount of shock; his uncle’s hand came down on his shoulder and his uncle quietly intervened as he said, “Thank you for your offer, Lord Emrys; we accept.” Team One had already shed the swords so Emrys took them and departed with a small bow.

Silnok, behind his desk, gave a low, crackly chuckle. “It is good to see you again, Sergeant Parker; I was most displeased to learn about what had befallen you.”

Greg’s responding chuckle was just as crackly and still rather rusty. “Not exactly on my feet yet, Account Manager Silnok,” he admitted.

“Perhaps not,” Silnok conceded, “But I have little doubt you shall be in short order.” He smiled, showing every last one of his sharp teeth as he added, “As you had swords from the Calvin vault, these,” he waved a long-fingered hand, causing a box to rise into view, “Seemed rather redundant. I also arranged for another shield for you, Sergeant Parker.” The goblin’s smile grew wider. “I imagine the British Ministry for Magic will hardly know how to respond to seven technological Aurors with weapons of Narnian make.”

“Wait, all of these are…?” Sam asked, looking stunned.

“Of Narnian make, Constable Braddock?” Silnok clarified. “Indeed they are. Every shield, every bow, and every sword – save those swords from the Knights of the Round Table, of course – are of Narnian make.” With a smirk, he tacked on, “That does, of course, include the armor sets.”

Lance gave the goblin his own smirk. “You just want to enjoy the fireworks when the Ministry of Magic finds out about all of this.”

Silnok didn’t deny it, instead he contrived to look even more smug as he settled back in his chair. “As you humans say, _that_ is just the icing on the cake.”

 

[8] Old English for ‘destroy’


	15. Epilogue

Greg Parker grimaced, just a bit. Being back in his own body was good, _very_ good, but the side effects he’d be living with for a while were already quite the pain. Every last one of his senses was out of whack and he’d already tripped over his own feet – four times – come within a hairsbreadth of walking nose-first into a door frame, and he was still flinching at every sound that was louder than a regular speaking voice.

Lance and Alanna weren’t leaving his side, period, and the rest of his team was torn between hovering and wanting to chew him up one side and down the other. Frankly, he was leaning towards the chewing out given the fact that they were at Eddie’s house and Eddie had quietly chased Sophie and Clark out, his worried expression giving way to a far angrier and indignant one.

Wordy nudged the kids aside and took over helping with navigation, guiding Greg to a chair that looked comfortable, but was also essentially situated in the room’s front and center. Once close enough, Greg latched onto the chair and lowered himself into it without help; he wasn’t completely helpless, darn it. Once he was down, he started rubbing his forehead; the low level headache he had just wasn’t going away, despite his team’s best efforts to keep as quiet as possible. “You okay, Sarge?” Wordy asked.

“Maybe some aspirin if Eddie has some?” Greg requested, too exhausted to even _try_ pulling a macho routine.

Wordy nodded and, getting Ed’s attention, made a few quick hand signals. Ed nodded back and vanished into his kitchen long enough to find his boss a glass of water and two pain pills. Coming back out, he passed them to his friend; Greg swallowed the pills down with a soft, “Thank you.” Then he braced himself for the chewing out.

“Why?” Ed demanded, though he kept his voice down. Greg arched a brow in question. “Why didn’t you tell us what was going on?”

The water glass was suddenly very interesting. Greg fumbled, searching for the right words to explain, but really, there weren’t any right words for this. “What could I have said, Eddie?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice halfway level. “Was I supposed to say, ‘Oh, surprise, guys, I know where you are pretty much all the time and I’m getting blasted with your emotions too. And, oh, by the way, my hearing’s completely out of whack.’ How well would that have gone over?”

He didn’t see the concerned and unnerved looks being traded, then Spike asked hesitantly, “Is that still happening?”

Greg’s grimace was the only answer they needed, but he tried to elaborate, feeling that they deserved at _least_ that much from him. “It’s all still there, Spike, but not as…not as bad as before. I can turn it off now and before, I really couldn’t, not even off-duty. Hearing’s still funky, but so is everything else right now.”

He sighed, finally bringing his eyes up from the water glass. “I thought about saying something, especially right after it happened, but after a while it started being more…manageable. I thought maybe I was getting it under control, getting a handle on it. Before…what happened…it was almost under control.”

To his surprise, the kids – and his team – looked alarmed rather than relieved. Lance cleared his throat and informed Greg, “That’s because the anchors that kinda, sorta, made the problem worse started breaking.”

“No ‘kinda, sorta’ about it,” Ed snapped. “I’m not going to go through the whole thing, Greg, so you’d better read that Healer’s report.” Greg nodded agreement. “But what you thought was getting better was actually getting worse, a lot worse.” He jabbed his thumb at the teenagers. “I don’t ever want to see those two cry like that again, you hear me, Greg?”

“Cry?” Greg asked in horror, his eyes snapping to his _nipotes_.

Wordy, reliable, steady Wordy, finally lost his temper. “Wake up and smell the coffee, Sarge. You. Lost. Your. _Soul!_ You were a ghost, for crying out loud!” Greg paled, coming close to the pallor he’d had in the Netherworld. “Don’t you _dare_ do something like that again, Sarge.” The big man stopped, struggling to hold back tears.

“You looked _dead_ , Sarge,” he accused, his voice going hoarse with emotion, “For all we knew, you _were_ dead and we just didn’t know it yet.” In spite of Wordy’s best efforts a tear slipped free; Greg was stricken at the raw grief in his constable’s voice.

“The docs were already telling the kids to turn off the machines, pull the plug ‘cause you were brain-dead any way.” Wordy wiped the tear away, drew in a deep breath, and kept going. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t have a few issues with you sensing our emotions and knowing where we were pretty much all the time, but it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t want it, right?”

Greg nodded, reeling and still too stunned to speak…he’d been a _ghost_? He’d been right on the edge of dead – so close his _nipotes_ had been told to take him off life support? He’d…made his niece cry?

“Just…if it happens again, _say_ something! I don’t care how crazy it sounds, say something. Please, Sarge,” Wordy all but begged.

“Seconded,” Jules remarked quietly.

“Thirded,” Lou agreed. The rest of the team offered their own agreement, even the kids.

Greg swallowed hard, surveying his team. He’d almost lost them…and through his own actions, no less. “Fair enough,” he managed to get out past the lump in his throat. “But I say that goes for _all_ of us, okay? Doesn’t matter how crazy it is, how crazy it sounds; if anyone has trouble like this, you say something, all right?”

Ed shrugged. “I can live with that.” He eyed his boss for several more moments. “You aren’t going to make it home, are you?”

Greg flushed and just shook his head. He could hardly keep his head up as it was.

Ed considered, flashing a quick question at Wordy, who shrugged back. “Okay, you and the kids can stay here tonight,” Ed decided. “Tomorrow, Jules and I will talk to Holleran, tell him you’re better, but not ready to come back yet. We should be able to stall him until you can walk a straight line.”

Greg grimaced at that very true statement.

“Oh, and Greg?” Greg looked up at his team leader, question in his eyes. “Welcome back.”

* * * * *

Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers,  
I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me.  
A day may come when the courage of men fails,  
when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship,  
but it is not this day.  
An hour of wolves and shattered shields,  
when the age of men comes crashing down,  
but it is not this day!  
This day we fight!!  
By all that you hold dear on this good Earth,  
I bid you stand, Men of the West!!!  
_~Aragorn Elessar, Lord of the Rings: Return of the King_

 

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end of my longest story to date (both in chapters and word count)!. Now, before any of you write comments asking about what happened between Greg's rescue and the Knights ending up back in Toronto, my beta reader, Phrag, is way ahead of you. (Which could be because he gets my stories a lot sooner than ya'll do *wink*).
> 
> I was originally planning on putting out my Side Story with the 'missing' scene on my day off this week, but it turns out my day off is Saturday. Therefore, instead of starting the next story, I will be posting my Phrag-inspired Side Story "Body and Soul, Reunited" on Friday, September 1st, 2017. Then I will start the next story, "Catch Me When I Fall", on Saturday, September 2nd, 2017.


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